


Reclamation

by Spikedluv



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Time, Future Fic, Incomplete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan and Methos meet again after 50 years, in a world torn by war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reclamation

**Author's Note:**

> I am not an expert on war, the humanitarian aid effort, or helicopters. I tried to use current events to color my fic, but most of the facts and information I made up. I did check out Black Hawk helicopters and their variants, including the Pave Hawk, here http://www.fas.org/man/dod-101/sys/ac/uh-60.htm, though I made up the inside of the cockpit since I couldn’t find any pictures of it.
> 
> Thanks: Amanda, as always, beta and grasshopper extra ordinaire; Karen, ‘net bud whose fb rivals ambrosia; and Tammy, mucho thanks for the slash help (quit laughing, dammit!) and to you and your hubby for the military techo stuff! Any mistakes are solely my own!
> 
> Written: Sometime, 2003

_1530 April 10, 2052  
Refugee camp  
Paris, France_

* * *

  
Methos heard the characteristic thwump, thwump, thwump that heralded the arrival of the incoming helicopter. They were expecting a delivery of emergency supplies, and he hoped that this was it. He prayed to several gods, in hopes that at least one of them would be listening, that this shipment included medical supplies; he was getting short on almost everything, from bandages to antibiotics. He finished the drink that passed for coffee that was cooling in the bottom of his tin cup, rinsed the cup out with a few drops of precious water, and then attached it to his belt, before exiting the administrative mess tent and heading over to the helo pad at the edge of the camp.

The day was sunny, though the spring air was chilly, and a light breeze blew through his clothes, raising goosebumps on his arms and legs. He wore the standard uniform of the ‘humanitarian aid worker’, a pair of khaki trousers, white t-shirt under a beige sweater, and brown boots, all the better to blend in with the dirt and mud encampment that had once been part of the great city of Paris. A path cleared for him as Methos strode purposefully through the throng of refugees overcrowding the camp.

Over three thousand people living in a camp built to hold twenty-five hundred. The camp had been larger two years ago, right after the fall of Paris, but many of the displaced had found refuge with family and friends in France and Europe. Methos didn’t know how they’d have managed with tens of thousands of refugees to house and feed.

He looked up into the sky and watched as the Pave Hawk chopper, a large red cross painted on the bottom of it to indicate its humanitarian, rather than military, nature, set down. Dust billowed up around it, and the five men gathered in the two waiting jeeps held onto their caps so they didn’t blow away in the resulting wind. The rotors slowed, and then stopped; the pilot removed his headset, pushed the door open, and jumped to the ground. He was a large man, wearing green camouflage pants tucked into black military-style boots and an olive green t-shirt that hugged the muscles of his back and biceps, Methos noticed. Even from this distance, Methos could see that he had sun-kissed skin and long, dark hair that was pulled back in a leather thong.

The pilot walked to the front of the bird to greet the jeeps that pulled up to the helicopter. The co-pilot, a young woman with light brown hair in a ponytail beneath a baseball cap, and dressed in the same uniform of camo pants, black boots, and olive t-shirt, met the pilot at the front of the chopper, and they held an animated conversation with Enrique Palermo, the man in charge of the Paris refugee camp.

The co-pilot then ran off towards the admin tents, passing Methos with a distracted nod, while the pilot led the way to the side of the bird and into the belly of the chopper. With the help of several volunteers, he began unloading the supplies. As Methos neared the chopper, he felt the buzz of Immortal presence. He kept walking without breaking stride, so as to not give himself away. No one in this encampment was immortal, so that left the pilot, or someone else he’d brought with him on the chopper. Bloody hell, he shook his head in disgust. If they were flying supplies in the humanitarian aid effort, hopefully they wouldn’t be looking for a challenge.

“Ben!” Enrique called out to Methos, waving his hand to beckon him closer. “Medical supplies, at last!” he cried happily, indicating the boxes that were being loaded into the back of one of the jeeps.

“That’s great!” Methos replied with relief, excited despite his concern over the unknown Immortal. “I was hoping for some in this shipment. We’re low on just about everything. Who’s our benefactor this time?” he asked, as he noted the large red cross stamped on the boxes.

Before Enrique could respond, the pilot stomped down the ramp they’d placed against the chopper floor, and hefted the box he carried onto the back of the jeep where Francois, one of the able-bodied refugees who volunteered his time for the administration, took it and stacked it with the others. “This is the last of it,” he said, turning to watch the rest of the volunteers carry the last of the cartons down the ramp and load them onto the waiting vehicles.

Methos didn’t even need to look. If the deep, husky tone of his voice hadn’t given him away, the distinctive and now-unmistakable buzz would have. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, Methos thought, as the breath rushed out of his body. Out of all of the refugee camps in the world, he had to find mine, he almost laughed hysterically. He had to look anyway; slowly turning his head until the Highlander filled his sight. The man even looked good in camouflage, Methos thought in disgust.

“Dr. Benjamin Adams,” Enrique said, “I’d like you to meet...”

“Mac,” Methos took a deep breath, as hazel eyes met brown.

“You’ve met?” Enrique asked, surprised.

“A long time ago,” MacLeod replied, his eyes blank, his voice carefully neutral to Methos’ ears. And then his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked past Methos.

“Strider!” the co-pilot called as she ran up to them, a squawking radio held in her hand. “There’s been movement!” she gasped for breath.

“We have to leave now,” MacLeod’s tone was serious, but not alarmed, as he focused his attention on Enrique, Methos seemingly forgotten. He turned to his co-pilot. “Start the pre-flight,” he commanded, and she wheeled on her toes, running around the chopper without another word.

“Yes, of course!” Enrique agreed anxiously, as they both watched MacLeod lift the ramp and slide it across the floor of the chopper before slamming the bay door closed, and then turning his attention back to Enrique.

“Will you be alright here?” he asked, darting a quick glance at Methos before returning his gaze to the camp director.

“We’re far enough away from the front lines; we’ll be fine,” Enrique assured the other man.

“Alright then, if you’re sure,” his eyes slid back over Methos, and then he turned away and jogged towards the cockpit, hoisting himself up into the pilot’s chair. Methos and Enrique stepped away from the helicopter as the other volunteers piled into the jeeps and pulled them back. Methos watched as MacLeod pulled on his headset and began speaking into the mouthpiece. He slipped on a pair of aviator sunglasses and adjusted one of the controls on the dash as he continued to speak, pausing momentarily to listen to the voice in his ear.

MacLeod turned his face towards him, and Methos wished he could see the eyes behind the sunglasses; wondered if Mac was looking at him. He reached up and flicked a switch, and the rotors began to spin, slowly at first, and then faster, until Methos felt his own clothing whipping about his body. Within moments, the Pave Hawk had risen in the air, and Methos watched as it became smaller and smaller, until it finally disappeared in the distance.

It had all happened so fast. This wasn’t at all how he pictured his first meeting with Mac after over fifty years. First of all, he hadn’t orchestrated it; hadn’t been prepared to face the man, all of his defenses in place, acerbic comments at the ready. Secondly, he hadn’t had time to steel his heart against the sight of the man. Not nearly enough time. His chest felt like a fist was squeezing it, and he couldn’t catch his breath. This was why he’d left Paris, left MacLeod, in the first place. He just couldn’t function around the man.

“Want a ride back?” Enrique patted his shoulder companionably, interrupting his thoughts.

“No,” Methos replied distractedly, as he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, still staring off into the empty sky. “I need the walk.”

“Alright,” Enrique agreed, and then climbed into one of the jeeps, and the two vehicles moved back to the camp to unload the dearly needed supplies.

Fifty-four years. Methos had left Paris without a word to anyone the day after MacLeod had fought O’Roarke. He’d read MacLeod’s Chronicles and become infatuated with the noble Highland warrior before they’d even met. For what other reason would he have stayed in Paris when Joe Dawson told him that Duncan MacLeod was coming to see him? The only Immortal he hadn’t hidden from; turns out he should have run like the devil was after him. Meeting MacLeod had only made him fall harder, faster, more deeply in love. And *that* had been his downfall.

They had become friends, each slightly in awe of the other, and for nearly four years he had placed himself in danger just to make sure the stubborn Scot kept his head. Kalas, Kristin, Keane, and O’Roarke. Kol’tec and the Dark Quickening. Methos, who hadn’t fought in 200 years before meeting MacLeod, found himself back in the game. There had been setbacks in their friendship, of course; they had just been recovering from Kronos and the Horsemen when Ahriman appeared - and Mac killed Richie.

MacLeod had disappeared from Paris after Richie’s death, and Methos had let him go, even staying away when he learned that Mac had returned to Paris a year later. It only took one look at MacLeod the day he came to the bar to let Joe know that Amanda had been kidnapped by O’Roarke, for Methos to be drawn right back into the man’s orbit, as if he were Methos’ sun. But that night on the barge - the night Mac told Amanda that he loved her, that she made his heart glad, the night he reaffirmed his friendship with Joe, the night he told Methos that he didn’t know him - was the night Methos realized that friendship wasn’t enough. The night he made the decision *not* to be. But the only way not to be drawn into MacLeod’s orbit was to leave him.

It was true that Mac had thanked him for teaching him about acceptance, but Methos didn’t want to be the teacher, didn’t want to be the friend, the one who wasn’t loved. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if Mac still trusted him to watch his back, much less with his friendship. And the pain and betrayal of that statement, ‘I don’t know who or what you are, Methos’, had stabbed deeply, and Methos had automatically run from the pain. But there had been nowhere to outrun the memories, and he’d ended up back in Paris where he thought about MacLeod every day.

His first stop had been London. He’d sold all of his property and liquidated all of his assets, depositing the funds in numbered bank accounts in several different countries. He placed all of his ‘Adam Pierson’ paperwork in the safety deposit box and chose one of his other pseudonyms, Paulo Armante, to get him out of Europe without leaving a trail. He had credit cards, an Italian driver’s license, and a passport. All he needed was a destination.

He moved around the globe, never staying in one place for more than ten years, often less. He was in Canada, using the name Samuel Kane when Paris was bombed. His first thought had been for MacLeod. The world powers had been fighting a war of one sort or another on and off for decades, and it had finally escalated and moved into Europe. Civil wars, ethnic cleansing, coups, religious fanaticism, and internal struggle had finally escaped their boundaries.

No one knew who fired the first missile, and no one was taking credit for it. The Americans blamed the Chinese; the Russians blamed the Americans; the Chinese blamed the Arab coalition; the English wanted to blame the French, but Paris had been the first city demolished in what they were calling the Third World War. And this one really was a world war. There wasn’t a country that wasn’t involved, supplying military or humanitarian aid to either side. Not that you could find a ‘side’. Us and them. There were too damned many sides. Us and them and them and them.

Methos had used the reigning confusion in the wake of the Paris bombing to reclaim the identity of Dr. Benjamin Adams. With a little skillful hacking that went unnoticed in the resulting chaos, he had updated Ben Adams’ medical qualifications, and then hightailed it to Paris to help in the evacuation effort. He’d stayed to assist Hope Chest, the organization which had stepped up to fill the vacuum left by the virtual destruction of the Red Cross over twenty years before, set up a refugee camp and begin the process of rebuilding Paris. He had been there for nearly two years now. The camp kept growing, but little rebuilding was being done.

MacLeod. He should have known that Mac would get involved in the effort to supply humanitarian aid to the dispossessed. No, he shouldn’t have been surprised at all. Nor should he be surprised that MacLeod was the infamous ‘Strider’. Damn stubborn Scot! Just couldn’t stay out of trouble.

Even before Paris had been bombed, the name ‘Strider’ had been spoken with reverence, or angry disdain, depending on who you were talking to. How the man got the name, Methos didn’t know, but he’d been responsible for procuring and delivering food, clothing, blankets, and medical supplies to refugee camps since the Red Cross organization was demolished in one attack after another on their camps by forces loyal to men who, like Kronos, worshiped chaos and discord.

When he arrived at the medical tent, Methos saw that his assistant, Dr. Carl Goulde, was unpacking, cataloguing, and stocking the medical supplies. “What have we got?” Methos asked.

“A little bit of everything,” Carl turned to him with a pleased smile. “Even tongue depressors,” he raised the box he was holding.

“Can never have too many of those,” Methos smiled back, as he opened the flaps on one of the boxes and peered into it. He froze, and closed the flap, reading the name that had caught his attention. Dawson’s Hope Chest. Christ, MacLeod was behind Hope Chest too? His eyes burned as he thought about Joe, who had probably died many years ago. He hadn’t spoken to the man since leaving Paris. Another regret. He shook the feeling off and began helping Carl unpack the rest of the boxes.

 

 _1725 April 10, 2052  
Ranger Base Three  
Bordeaux, France_

* * *

  
Duncan didn’t let himself think about Methos until he had the chopper in the air and safely out of range of the missile launchers that were being moved south toward Paris. They’d been warned by the European Provisional Government’s local forces, headed by General Michael Houseman, that the front line was being harried and that the enemy might be moving in from the north.

Methos. God, Methos was in Paris. A doctor again. ‘Whatever you need. Lawyer, doctor, Indian chief,’ Methos’ voice haunted him, as it had done for fifty-four years and five months, give or take a couple of days. Duncan swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He couldn’t think about Methos, not while he was still in the air. He thought they were out of danger, but enemy forces hadn’t been this close to Paris in over six months, so it paid to remain alert.

One hour and thirty-six minutes later, Duncan spoke into his mouthpiece. “Ranger base three, this is Ranger One, requesting permission to land.” The large concrete structure that was their home in Europe grew larger as they flew closer. It was the perfect base; they had access to water, land, and air, and often used all three modes of transportation to deliver their shipments of humanitarian and emergency supplies to refugee camps in this part of the world.

“Chicken Little?” Joe’s worried voice came through the headset.

“The sky is falling,” Duncan replied with a smile. It was good to hear his friend’s voice.

“‘Bout time you got here!” Joe yelled. “They’ve got troop movements all over France!”

“I know, we heard,” Duncan responded dryly.

“Get your asses down here!” Joe ordered. “Base out.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Duncan snapped the military response teasingly.

“Oh...just get down here,” Joe huffed.

“Joe?” Mac said. “Meet me in the office. We need to talk.” Duncan switched off the mic, and turned to his co-pilot. “Prepare to land,” he said, and watched as Serena went through the landing checklist. She had been with the Rangers for five years now, and was a damned fine pilot. One day he was going to have to send her out on her own.

Duncan landed the chopper, and a crew was there to cover it with camouflage nets before the blades had stopped rotating. Duncan spoke with the maintenance crew, and then they ducked under the nets to inspect the rebuilt Pave Hawk. He sent Serena off to shower and get something to eat. This particular trip hadn’t been long, but it had been exhausting. Unfortunately, it wasn’t uncommon that they had to fly over enemy-held territory to deliver supplies to the refugee camps; he’d just hoped that this trip would be event-free.

When he turned towards the building that served as one of their bases of operation, Joe was waiting for him, his chair hovering a couple of feet away to give him the time and space to take care of the final details of the mission. “Hey, Joe,” Duncan said, knowing he sounded tired.

“You alright?” Joe asked, maneuvering his hover-chair closer to Duncan and easily keeping pace with him as they headed towards the old submarine base. Duncan had thought it a beautiful irony that he use the same abandoned submarine base in Bordeaux as his European base of operations, that Kronos had used when he hoped to reassemble the Four Horsemen.

“Yeah,” Duncan replied. “Just didn’t expect to have to watch out for missile launchers on this trip. I guess you got the bad news,” he continued. “The good news is that the delivery went without a hitch. They were very pleased to get the medical supplies. I take it theirs were nearly depleted.”

“That’s great,” Joe said. “I’m glad you made it back safely, Mac.”

“Me too, old friend,” Duncan smiled. “Me too.” They continued to the office in silence.

“What’s wrong?” Joe asked, as soon as Duncan closed the office door behind them. Duncan sank into the hard, wooden chair behind the old metal desk with a deep sigh.

“I saw...,” he hesitated, and wiped his hand over his face, took a deep breath, and began again. “I saw an old....friend...in Paris,” he said, glancing up at Joe. “Methos was there.”

“Methos?” Joe cried. “He’s still alive? Oh, thank god!” Relief hit him hard, and tears built up in his eyes, then spilled over to run down his weathered cheeks. “Shit! I need a tissue,” he wiped his face with the back of one hand. Duncan handed him a handkerchief and Joe wiped his eyes. He was nearing one hundred now, and would have been dead years ago if it hadn’t been for medical advancements.

He was now the proud owner of an artificial heart and an artificial lung. The way he was going, he could live forever. Of course, most of him would be plastic. Despite great strides made in the area of transplants, he hadn’t been able to walk on his prostheses for over thirty years. He’d been relegated to a wheelchair until Duncan’s infusion of cash had resulted in the invention of the hover-chair he now drove.

It had hurt him a lot when Methos left Paris, though he thought he knew why the oldest Immortal had run. Everyday he expected Methos to walk through the door to his bar and ask for a beer, as if he’d never been gone; but he never did. Years went by, and he never stopped looking up every time the door opened, until he sold the bars. But he never stopped wondering where he was; whether he was alright. There had never been a Watcher on Methos, and there was no way to track him. He wouldn’t be found until he was ready to be found. Unless fate intervened, Joe thought.

“How was he?” he asked.

“He looked...well,” Duncan replied. “He’s a doctor - again. Goes by the name Benjamin Adams. There wasn’t much time... We had to get out of there before the missile launchers were close enough to get a shot at us,” he said. Before he could see the cracks in my armor, Duncan thought.

“Do you think he’ll still be there when you go back?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know. Hard to tell what will make Methos run,” Duncan answered, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.

“Do you think I could...?”

“Oh, Joe, I don’t know,” Duncan shook his head. “It looks like the front lines are moving again. I don’t know how safe it’ll be...”

“If it’s safe enough for you, it’s safe enough for me!” Joe argued.

“I’m Immortal, Joe,” Duncan hissed.

“But your co-pilots aren’t,” Joe reminded him.

“You’re not a Ranger, either!”

“And I don’t want to go on every mission you fly,” Joe responded. “Just this one. It’s been fifty years, Mac. I don’t have fifty more.”

Duncan watched as Joe fought back tears. “We’ll see,” he allowed.

“Thanks,” Joe said.

“I just said ‘we’ll see’,” Duncan replied firmly.

“I know. And I just said ‘thanks’!” Joe snapped back.

Duncan left Joe so he could take a shower, arranging to meet him in the mess for supper in an hour. When Duncan got to the small, spare room he claimed as his own, he dropped down onto the cot and fell back. He closed his eyes and let himself think about Methos. He’d looked good. His skin was tanned from being out in the sun, his hair cut in a military-style buzz cut, something Duncan knew that most humanitarian aid workers did because of the prevalence of head lice and other outbreaks in refugee camps. The beige sweater and slacks he wore would have washed out his normally-pale skin, but complemented the light brown tone of his now-tanned skin, and brought out the brown flecks in his hazel eyes.

Duncan let his mind replay his memories of Methos like a movie - Methos sitting on the floor, leaning against his bed the first day they met; the look on Methos’ face when Duncan realized Adam Pierson was Methos; Methos tossing him a beer, and saying ‘mi casa es su casa’; Methos looking like a drowned rat and offering Duncan his head; Methos’ smile when Joe brought him to the barge; Methos sprawled out on Duncan’s couch; Methos’ look of surprise when Duncan had painted his nose; Methos grieving for Alexa; Methos’ exasperation when Duncan stopped him from taking Keane’s head; the look Methos got on his face when he was telling Joe a fanciful story about his past, and Joe was taking it all in, hook, line, and sinker; Methos smiling; Methos scowling; Methos lying on his bed...

He pushed himself up to sit on the cot, and removed his utility belt, boots, and socks. He stood and removed his t-shirt. Taking the leather tie out of his hair, he brushed it out, then grabbed a clean pair of briefs and pants, and headed to the men’s shower area. As he lathered up his hair, Duncan’s thoughts drifted back to Methos. They’d barely had time to renew their friendship before Methos had left again. And Duncan hadn’t had a chance to tell Methos exactly how he felt about the older Immortal.

He’d thanked him - for teaching him a valuable lesson about acceptance, of yourself and others - but he hadn’t told him that he loved him, as he had told Amanda, and showed Joe. And he did love the old man. Realized now that that was why he’d gotten so upset when Methos hadn’t told him about the Horsemen. Sure, a lot happened in 5000 years, and no one liked to dwell on past mistakes, but Methos had spent 1000 years with Kronos, and Duncan had been the slightest bit jealous. Especially when it had seemed that Methos was leaving him to rejoin his old friend.

Who was he kidding? He probably never would have worked up the courage to tell Methos how he felt about him. He certainly couldn’t do it in front of Amanda and Joe; the thought that Methos would laugh at him or, god forbid, let him down gently, was more than he could bear. And when he’d gone to see Methos two days later, the older Immortal had already disappeared.

Duncan had been devastated, but had known better than to look for Methos. The crafty Immortal would only be found when he was good and ready. So Duncan had thrown himself into life with a vengeance, making sure he never had a spare moment to think; to remember. He worked, he read, he attended the theater, he drank with Joe; but at night, when he closed his eyes, he could no longer keep the memories of Methos at bay.

Ten years into his self-imposed penance, Duncan realized that the world was going to hell in a handbasket. The refugee camps in Bosnia and Iraq were still in existence, and becoming more crowded. These people not only didn’t have homes, most didn’t have the bare necessities, like food, water, clothes, and medicine. Duncan found a new purpose, and he dove in head first. He started small, purchasing food and medicine to donate to the Red Cross.

Then he bought several farms in the mid-West region of the United States and formed a charity that sold enough food on the world markets to pay all of the business expenses; the rest of the food was donated to the Red Cross. Duncan called the charity Dawson’s Hope Chest, in honor of his friend, Joe Dawson. When Joe had to go into the hospital for the heart and lung transplant operations, Duncan had been frantic with worry each time. He wasn’t ready for Joe to leave him, too.

Duncan could see that, despite Joe’s renewed health, he was having more and more trouble with his prostheses. Duncan purchased several medical research companies and started them working on better prostheses. By the time they figured out how to make them more comfortable and nearly effort-free, Joe was in a wheelchair. Duncan put the new products on the market and had the team of researchers turn their attention to making a better wheelchair. They applied the same technology they had invented for the new prostheses to the chair, and produced the first hover-chair.

Several research teams were set the task of coming up with possible cures for biological weapons, while others came up with improved antibiotics. Duncan donated medical supplies and the new prostheses to the Red Cross for victims of land mines. When the Red Cross was destroyed twenty years ago, Duncan purchased their remaining trucks and went into the business of delivery. He found that it wasn’t as simple as that, though.

First, he had to find people to make the deliveries, and he started with ex-military men and women. Then he realized that there was no structure to the camps, after the Red Cross disintegrated; no one to make sure the food and medicine he delivered was passed out, shared. Hope Chest branched out into the business of administering to the camps. The fighting escalated, and he needed other ways to make and receive deliveries, so he purchased boats and thirty-year old Black Hawk and Pave Hawk choppers that needed to be rebuilt and refitted.

Before long, the group around him had increased from a couple dozen to hundreds. Everyone, including the camp administrators, went through a basic training course, learning self-defense, strategic planning, and weapons training. The men and women who were responsible for making and protecting the deliveries, the Rangers, received more intensive training. Duncan himself, though in good shape, took the training course, and learned how to fly the Black Hawk and Pave Hawk choppers and how to pilot a boat.

For nearly forty years, Duncan, with the help of Joe Dawson, shouldered the responsibility for making sure that those who had been dispossessed by the ongoing conflicts, received food, shelter, clothes, and medicine. Duncan had been responsible for flying many of the missions, which had eventually earned him the name ‘CloudWalker’. Some intrepid journalist, who hadn’t known how to spell MacLeod, had given him the nickname when he managed to fly himself out of sticky situations seemingly unscathed.

Another journalist, playing upon the notion of the Rangers, called him ‘CloudStrider’, and eventually shortened it to Strider, which Duncan recognized as a Tolkein reference. He didn’t actually care what they called him, as long as they didn’t keep him from getting the job done. In fact, his notoriety brought in donations, and the nickname kept his real name out of the press. The last thing he needed was someone comparing pictures of Duncan MacLeod from twenty years ago with pictures of Strider now.

And then Paris fell. His first thought had been for Methos. Within a week after Paris was hit, London, Cairo, Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv, and Rome were bombed, taking the war home to those countries; and the number of refugee camps grew as one internal struggle after another exploded into world conflict, and the Third World War began in earnest. This was not an organized war with easily recognizable sides. The battles were fought on every front, and the country or army that was your ally today could quite easily be your enemy tomorrow. Chaos reigned.

The headquarters of Hope Chest had been located on the New Jersey coastline. Now that the number of camps had increased, Duncan and Joe realized that they needed other bases of operation to reach all of the camps. They decided on Bordeaux, France for their European base, and Alaska, USA as a jumping-off point to Asia and Africa. They’d considered getting closer to the camps, but that would put them in the middle of the war-zone, and all of their resources at risk. Without the equipment, they wouldn’t be able to deliver the supplies.

Duncan had kept Joe in New Jersey until a couple of months ago, when they both flew to Bordeaux after the front line moved out of France. Now it looked like it was moving back, and Joe was in danger. So was Methos. Damn him! He said he didn’t have a conscience, what was he doing getting involved and placing himself in danger? You just couldn’t believe a word the man said!

 

 _1100 May 5, 2052  
Ranger Base Three  
Bordeaux, France_

* * *

  
Joe was in the communications center when Duncan returned from the loading docks, where they’d just received a shipment from New Jersey. Before unloading the crates, Duncan wanted to find out who was due for deliveries, so they could load the necessary supplies onto the trucks, choppers, or boats, rather than piling them in the warehouse only to have to reload them later that day or the next.

“Hey, Joe,” Duncan called to him as he passed the open door. “Any problems?”

“No,” Joe said as he maneuvered the hover-chair away from the communications console and followed Duncan down the hallway to their office. “That was Enrique Palermo, wanted to put the Paris camp on the list for deliveries this week, if we have room.”

“He’s in luck,” Duncan replied. “We just got a shipment in from New Jersey and I was coming here to check our lists to see who’s due up next for a delivery so we can start loading the trucks.” Duncan reviewed the list in front of him and began making notations on who needed to receive deliveries first, and what supplies they needed. When he was done he passed the papers over to Joe and leaned back in the uncomfortable wooden chair. “Check this over for me, will you, Joe?” Duncan asked, rubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to wash away the exhaustion and despair that would overtake him suddenly.

“Sure, Mac.” Joe pulled the papers over, adjusted his hover-chair so he could lean over the desk comfortably, and began to make his own notes. There were over one hundred camps now, some small, some large, and the number of displaced was growing everyday. Some days it was damned discouraging.

While Joe went over the ship’s manifest and list of camps requiring supplies, Duncan opened his handheld unit and checked to make sure that Alaska had received a shipment from New Jersey and were preparing to ship it out to the camps located in the far and middle-East as he had directed. When he looked up, Joe was staring at him.

“Done?” he asked, closing the handheld.

“Yeah, I just made a few changes.” Joe handed the papers to Duncan and he glanced over the notations Joe had made.

“Alright.” He stood, papers in hand. “Let’s load ‘em up!”

Three hours later, the trucks, choppers, and ships were loaded, and Duncan sent everyone, except those on guard duty, inside to shower, eat, and rest. The convoy would be moving out early the next morning. Ships would be moving west and then north into England, Scotland, and Ireland via the Atlantic Ocean; trucks were moving south into Spain, and east into Italy; choppers were flying south into northern Africa, and east into Europe and Asia. Each transport carried a squadron of Rangers for protection. It was getting to the point that even friendly forces didn’t want you passing through if you were taking humanitarian supplies to refugees from the ‘other side’.

 

 _0900 May 6, 2052  
Ranger Base Three  
Bordeaux, France_

* * *

  
After the others had taken off the next morning, Duncan helped Joe get settled in the engineer’s seat in the cockpit of the Pave Hawk. Once Joe was securely strapped in, Duncan attached the folded hover-chair behind his seat. His co-pilot today was James Conrad, a young man from Iowa. His family worked on one of the farms that Duncan had bought, but James wanted to be more active in the aid effort, so he’d traveled to New Jersey and asked to join the Rangers. James was a natural pilot, and had taken to flying the Black Hawk choppers like a duck to water.

Before getting in the chopper, Duncan walked around it with the head of the maintenance crew. He wanted to make sure that all of the gun ports were functional. When they’d first received the choppers, weapons had been the last item on the list to repair and maintain. That was no longer the case. Once he was satisfied, Duncan climbed into the chopper and buckled himself into his seat.

“Begin pre-flight,” he commanded.

“Yes, sir,” James replied, as he complied with the order.

Five minutes later, they were in the air. One hour and thirty-six minutes after take-off, the Paris camp came into view.

 

 _1036 May 6, 2052  
Refugee Camp  
Paris, France_

* * *

  
“Oh, my God...Paris,” Joe whispered, unable to believe that Paris was really gone. Eight in ten buildings had been completely demolished by the bombardment. Of the remaining buildings, few were completely intact. Over the past two years, the refugees had labored to clear out a small section of the old city for their own use, but it was barely a small dot of progress amidst the sea of destruction.

Duncan flew over the old city and the camp, slowing the chopper and setting down on the helo pad. He grinned to himself, as there was a flurry of activity near the admin tents.

“What’s going on?” Joe asked, leaning forward to look out the screen.

“I didn’t tell them we were coming,” Duncan grinned, as he shut down the engines.

“Why not?” Joe asked.

“Just covering all the bases,” Duncan cryptically replied. “Come on, let’s get out of here. James, open up the back, please.” Duncan jumped to the ground and freed Joe’s chair. He unfolded the chair and engaged the hover function. Joe, using his immense upper body strength, levered himself out of the engineer’s seat and pulled himself into the pilot’s seat, and then into the hover-chair.

By the time he and Joe made their way around the chopper to the open door in the belly, James had unstrapped the cartons, and two jeeps were heading their way. Duncan leaned back against the chopper, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for Enrique Palermo to reach them.

“Strider!” Enrique threw himself out of the jeep before it came to a complete stop. “What a wonderful surprise! We just called yesterday!” he said, as he clasped one of Duncan’s hands and clapped his free hand on Duncan’s shoulder.

“Luckily for you, we received a shipment yesterday, just before we received your communication, so we were able to meet most of your requested items,” Duncan said. “And I brought a friend,” he indicated Joe.

“Joseph!” Enrique cried when he let himself notice anyone but Duncan. “Hearing your voice is no match for being able to see you again! How are you, my friend?”

“I’m well, Enrique, and you, how are you?” Joe replied, grasping the other man’s forearm. He was usually stuck at the bases, and even though the sight of Paris was disheartening, it was good to see Enrique again.

“I too, am well,” Enrique replied.

“How’s camp life?” Joe asked, moving his chair away from the open door so the other men could start unloading the crates and barrels into the waiting jeeps.

“Some days good, some days not so good,” Enrique said with a shrug, as he held one hand out and tilted it from side-to-side. “Life here is hard, but for the most part, everyone pitches in with the chores and tries to make the best of things. We’ve set up a camp community based on the model we learned, to settle disputes between the camp members, and it seems to be working well. So far,” Enrique excitedly explained.

“I hear you’ve got a new doctor,” Joe subtly changed the subject.

“Strider’s friend, Dr. Adams, you mean?” Enrique asked. “You also know him? What a small world! Yes, yes, he is an amazing doctor. But he is not new. He was here before I arrived, even, helping to evacuate survivors from the city, and setting up the original camp.”

“Really?” Joe asked. He noticed that Mac had stopped working as he too listened to Enrique’s comments about Methos.

“Yes!” Enrique nodded his head in emphasis. “He was like a man possessed, making sure that everyone, even the dead, were found. I often thought he was looking for someone in particular, while hoping not to find them.”

Duncan’s head jerked up when he sensed Methos’ presence. Joe looked over at him, and Duncan gave him an encouraging smile and a nod before jumping to the ground to help one of the volunteers carry a 55-gallon drum over to one of the jeeps and hoist it up onto the tailgate, where it was rolled into place and stood up on its end. Thank the gods for the buzz that warned of another Immortal’s presence, Duncan thought. It gave him time to prepare himself to see the ancient.

Methos stepped around the chopper, his heart filled with hope and dread at the same time. His breath had caught in his throat when he heard the chopper’s approach. He wanted to see MacLeod, and he didn’t. The last four weeks had been the hardest during the last fifty years they’d spent apart. Apart, ha! That made it sound like they’d made a mutual decision to not see each other, instead of Methos leaving Paris without a word.

Part of him prayed that someone else was piloting this delivery, while another part prayed that it was Mac. Part of him wanted to hide in the medical tent regardless, but Enrique would wonder where he was if he didn’t show up to see if any medical supplies had been delivered, as was his practice. With a heavy sigh, his feet dragging as if he were walking to the guillotine, Methos told Carl where he was going, and headed for the helo pad.

The first sight he had of MacLeod, the other man was carrying a 55-gallon drum, the muscles of his arms and shoulders flexing beneath the weight. He was dressed in the same uniform he’d worn when he made the last delivery; the only difference Methos could see was that this time, his long hair was braided, the thick braid hanging to the middle of his back. Methos swallowed hard and took a deep breath; he could do this.

Just as he stepped forward to greet MacLeod, another voice caught his attention. “Well, old man,” a familiar voice spoke softly, so that only Methos could hear, “you got eyes for anyone besides Mac?”

Methos froze, then closed his eyes. He opened them and slowly turned his head to the side. A man with white hair cut close to his scalp was sitting near his shoulder in a hover-chair. “Methos, you alright?” the man asked worriedly, but kept his voice low.

“Joe?” Methos finally responded. “Joe?” he asked again, his face showing the shock of seeing a man he’d assumed was long dead. “Joe?” Methos couldn’t stop the tears that filled his eyes, and he lifted a hand to wipe them away angrily. He was 5000 years old, for the gods’ sake, nothing was supposed to phase him; he’d already seen it all.

“Hey, buddy,” Joe smiled. “Miss me?”

“Joe, I can’t believe...”

“Me neither!” Joe said. “Plastic,” he pounded his fist against his chest. “Like my new ride?” he asked, slapping his hand on the arm of the chair.

“God...Joe?” Methos knew he sounded like a broken record, but he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Joe was not only alive, but *here*, in the middle of a refugee camp where Paris once stood.

“I missed you too, buddy,” Joe said, his voice serious, as he dropped the arm of his chair and reached out with one arm and pulled Methos to him in an awkward hug. Methos buried his face in Joe’s neck, wrapped his arms around the other man’s shoulders, and held on tight. When he finally pulled away, his face was wet with the silent tears he’d shed.

“Damn you, Joseph!” Methos said, lifting the hem of his t-shirt to wipe his face. “You made me blubber in front of people. How am I going to get any respect now? And not a word out of you!” he turned to Mac and pointed a finger at him.

Duncan held both hands up, palm out, and pressed his lips together, then turned back to the chopper and reached inside. “Joe,” Duncan handed the other man a box.

“Oh, yeah, thanks, Mac. Forgot about this in all the excitement. Brought you a present,” Joe held the box out to Methos.

“Joe, you don’t need...”

“I know that! I did it because I wanted to, and I could. Go on, open it,” he encouraged.

Methos tore into the box, and pulled out a six-pack of Samuel Adams Cream Stout beer.

“It’s warm,” Joe apologized.

“Joe,” Methos shook his head. “Thank you. I haven’t had a good beer in... How long has it been, Enrique?”

“Two years, one month, and three weeks,” Enrique sighed deeply. “So for you, a little longer.”

“Wow, uh, Ben,” Joe said. “You’ve gone two years without a beer? Maybe you shouldn’t start back up,” he reached for box.

“Back away, Joe,” Methos pulled the box out of Joe’s reach and held it against his chest. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.” Joe laughed.

“Joe, why don’t you let...Ben show you the camp. I’ll come and get you when we’re ready to leave,” Duncan offered.

“Thanks, Mac. Do you mind?” Joe asked Methos.

“Of course I don’t mind!” Methos replied, as he turned to lead the way back to the camp. “But I’m not sharing my beer.”

“That’s alright,” Joe said, piloting the chair to pace him, “I brought my own.” He patted his jacket pocket where a flask of scotch waited.

Methos laughed. “Welcome back to Paris, Joe.”

“What’s left of it. What did you do while I was gone?” Joe’s voice drifted back to Duncan as he stood and watched the other two move off. He took a deep breath and turned back to the unloading. When all of the crates and barrels had been unloaded from the chopper and stacked in the back of the jeeps, he sent James back to the camp with the volunteers.

When he was alone, Duncan leaned against the chopper and lowered his head. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. He was not going to cry. He was not angry or jealous that Methos was glad to see Joe. Joe would have been heartbroken if Methos hadn’t been happy to see him. Just...why couldn’t Methos have been happy to see him, too?

Hell, if he knew *that*, he’d know why Methos had left in the first place. Not that he didn’t have his own ideas. He’d had over fifty years to think about it, after all. Fifty-four years and nearly six months, to be exact. Methos had managed to stay out of the game for 200 years before Duncan met him. Enter one Duncan MacLeod, and Methos was thrown right back into the Game. Reason number one.

Methos had always been there to save Duncan’s ass. Kalas. Kristin. The Dark Quickening; where Methos could have lost his life to Duncan’s madness. Keane. Granted, Methos had shot him in the back to save him, but you couldn’t have everything! O’Roarke. And he’d been there when Duncan needed a...what? A push? Another point of view? The other Methos. Ingrid. Methos told Richie he wasn’t wise, but he was always offering sage advice, teaching. Maybe he got tired of being called upon to pull Duncan’s nuts out of the fire so often. Reason number two.

And, there was always the off chance that Methos had realized what Duncan felt for him. More than friendship, though he hadn’t realized it until O’Roarke, when Fitz had guided him through a dream world where he had never existed, a la ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’. There had been more than one reason he’d chosen to live. Methos had been one of them. And oddly enough, the first sight he’d awakened to. Fate? Whatever. Possible reason number three.

Duncan shook off his malaise, locked down the chopper, and began the short walk to the camp. He easily found his way to the medical tent, which was marked by a large red cross, and was told that ‘Ben’ had taken Joe to the administrative mess tent. He felt the familiar buzz of Methos’ presence before he neared the tent in question. He ran into Enrique outside the tent, and they stopped to talk for a moment.

Methos glanced up when he felt MacLeod’s buzz. “Mac?” Joe asked him.

“Yeah,” Methos nodded, watching the open tent flap until he saw MacLeod framed in the opening. He studied the other Immortal as he held an animated conversation with Enrique. “He let his hair grow again,” Methos commented. He found the sight of the braid strangely erotic. Wondered what it would feel like between his fingers; what all that hair would look like, spread out around Mac as he lay...bloody hell, what was he thinking?

Joe cut off a laugh at that. “If you think that’s long, you should see it before he cuts it!”

“What do you mean?” Methos asked, glancing briefly at Joe before turning his attention back to MacLeod.

“He grew his hair out for ten years before it got too long - he kept sitting on it, and he almost got it caught in a fan belt once,” Joe reminisced, his eyes clouding with the memories. “So he cut it, and started growing it out again. I don’t think he realizes that I figured out what he was doing,” Joe mused.

“What was he doing?” Methos asked, intrigued by any insight into the Highlander.

“Waiting for you. Counting the days...years...that you’d been gone. Every ten years, on the anniversary of the date he realized you’d left Paris for good, he cuts his hair off. He’s cut it five times now,” Joe said sadly, glancing at Mac, and then back at Methos. “Another five and a half years and he’d have cut it again.”

Methos just stared at Joe. He didn’t know what to say. Mac grew his hair for *him*? Kind of a reverse grieving process - instead of cutting off his already short hair, he grew it long. “Does he hate me?” he asked, and then wondered how the words made it from his brain to his mouth. He was usually better at keeping such weaknesses hidden.

“No,” Joe shook his head, speaking softly. “He missed you. It damned near killed him when you left.”

“Joseph, you exaggerate,” Methos mocked, trying to get back on firmer ground.

“You weren’t there,” Joe hissed without raising his voice, not wanting to draw Mac’s attention to them.

“He didn’t *need* me there,” Methos retorted. “He had you and Amanda.”

“Either you don’t know your worth to your friends, which is a sad commentary on the wisdom of the world’s oldest Immortal, or it’s just a sorry excuse for leaving!” Joe slammed his fist down on the table. “And he’s not the only one you left behind. We were worried about you, dammit!”

“I can take care of myself, Joe. And I’d left before,” Methos defended himself.

“Yes, for *months*! For a year and a half, the last time,” Joe rejoined. “For ten years I waited for you to come in and ask for a beer. Every god damned time the door opened,” tears filled his eyes, “I hoped it was you!”

“Ten years seems to be a popular time-frame. What happened then?” Methos asked, trying to remain unaffected in the face of Joe’s obvious emotion.

“I sold the bars,” Joe replied. “Seemed the bad memories were starting to outweigh the good.”

“Everything alright?” Duncan asked. He hadn’t heard the exchange, but was concerned by the angry flush suffusing Joe’s skin.

“Fine,” Joe replied tightly. “I had forgotten how...”

“Irritating?” Duncan supplied with raised brows.

“Yes! How irritating this old fart could be!”

“Thanks a lot,” Methos muttered.

Duncan let his eyes roam over Methos, who actually looked embarrassed at having caused a ruckus, and was doing his best not to look at him. God, the old man looked good. He squelched the urge to reach out and touch Methos’ face, and turned to Joe. “You ready to go?”

“Yes!” Joe said, still annoyed. “But I’ll be back,” he pointed at Methos, “so you’d better still be here.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Joe,” Methos assured him.

“Damned right, you’re not!” Joe glared at Methos until the oldest Immortal looked up at him through lowered lashes, looking for all the world like a young kid. “Knock that off! And give me a hug!” Joe commanded.

Methos rose and gave Joe a hug. “Thanks for the beer,” he said. “And for the visit.”

“You’re welcome,” Joe snarled.

“I missed you, too, Joe,” Methos whispered.

“Damn you, old man,” Joe blinked back tears, and pushed Methos away.

“Mac,” Methos turned to MacLeod, taking the opportunity to look him over carefully. “Or should I say ‘Strider’?” he asked teasingly.

Duncan rolled his eyes. Stupid reporters! At least it kept his real identity secret. “That would be *CloudWalker*, to you,” he tried to match Methos’ light tone.

“Is that Duncan CloudWalker of the Clan MacCloudWalker?” Methos asked, with a slight smile.

“On second thought, it’s *Mr. MacLeod* to you.”

“Ready, Strider?” James poked his head in the tent, and the three men laughed.

“We’re coming,” he turned to James, and then back to Methos. “Methos,” he said, and hesitated. He didn’t want to say goodbye. He didn’t want to leave him behind. He wondered what Methos would do if he knocked him over the head and took him back to Bordeaux. And wouldn’t *that* be an interesting conversation. ‘Nice base.’ ‘Thanks. I visited once, liked the layout.’ Or he could tell the truth. Tell Methos how much he enjoyed the image of Kronos rolling in his grave.

“Drive carefully,” Methos filled the silence.

“I always do,” Duncan replied, and led the way out of the tent. He and James walked on either side of Joe’s chair as they headed back to the helo pad. Duncan turned and looked back. Methos was standing outside the tent, watching them. “Want to walk with us?” he asked. Methos just shook his head ‘no’. Duncan nodded, then turned to face the Pave Hawk and continued walking. He slipped his sunglasses on to hide his eyes.

He could feel Joe’s eyes on him. “I’ll be alright, Joe,” he said, laying his hand on the arm of Joe’s chair.

“I know, buddy. I know,” Joe placed his hand on top of Mac’s.

Methos stood outside the tent and watched the three men move away from him. Mac, bronze skin darkened by the sun, the long, dark braid swinging down his back; Joe, white-haired and looking too small for the chair that held him; and James, sandy blond-haired kid. He didn’t move until the helicopter had lifted off and disappeared from sight.

 

 _1300 June 3, 2052  
Ranger Base Three  
Bordeaux, France_

* * *

  
“What do you mean, you’re pulling out?” Duncan raised his voice in disbelief. “You can’t just pull out!”

Joe looked up from the files he was reviewing on the handheld, his brow furrowed questioningly at the irate tone of Mac’s voice. Duncan held a finger up to stem Joe’s questions, as he concentrated on the voice filling the headset.

“But what about Paris?” he finally broke in to ask. He listened for a couple of minutes more, and then ripped the headset off of his head and threw it on the table in frustration. He could not believe what General Houseman had just told him. He supposed he should be grateful. If he wasn’t the infamous ‘Strider’, Houseman wouldn’t have bothered to tell him anything.

“What’s happened?” Joe asked, worried at Mac’s reaction to the communication.

Duncan started to speak, then took a deep, and hopefully calming breath, before beginning again. “The European Provisional Government is pulling their forces out of France,” he spit out.

“Pulling out of France?” Joe repeated, stunned at the news. “They can’t pull out of France!”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Didn’t seem to make much difference,” Duncan replied wryly.

“What about Methos?” Joe breathed. He hadn’t seen the old man since their last delivery back in May, though he’d managed to talk to him a couple of times via the comm unit.

“General Houseman ‘suggested’ that we not attempt any further deliveries to the refugee camp in Paris,” Duncan said, swearing angrily beneath his breath, “because they would not be able to guarantee our safety. But that’s the least of our problems,” he continued. “If the EPG pulls out, they’ll be leaving Paris to Carmine. The camp won’t stand a chance.”

“The Butcher of Belgium,” Joe breathed the nickname, horrified at the prospect that General Carmine would hold sway in France. “They’ll be sitting ducks!”

“Collateral damage. Acceptable losses,” Duncan quoted. “Casualties of war.” His lips turned up in disgust.

“Those are our people! Mac, we can’t just...”

“I know, Joe,” Duncan interrupted him. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“We need to evacuate Paris. Again,” Joe said. “Call Enrique. And Methos. Jesus, Mac. Fucking war. Fucking politicians. Acceptable losses my ass!” Joe exploded. “When’s the EPG pulling out? Where’s Carmine now?” he asked, his agile mind already working on the problem.

“Less than 24 hours,” Duncan replied. “Houseman said they’ve already started pulling troops back into England, Germany, and Italy. Carmine’s main forces are still in Belgium, but will probably start moving in as soon as the EPG troops are gone; as early as tomorrow afternoon.”

Duncan and Joe poured over maps of France and Europe, calculated the number and location of their assets, and then determined the best and quickest way to evacuate Paris.

“Where are we going to put them all?” Joe asked, boggled by the sheer number of people they’d have to move and house.

“They can’t come here,” Duncan replied thoughtfully. “This’ll be Carmine’s next stop, right after he razes Paris.”

“Yeah, he’s got a hard-on for you, that’s for sure!” Joe shook his head. Duncan raised his eyebrows at Joe’s choice of phrase. “Well, he does! Geez, call the man a butcher and he gets all testy!” Joe smiled, using humor to lighten the tense situation. “Anyway, where were we? Oh, yeah, where to take them,” Joe moved back on track.

“We could send them to camps in Italy and England, but we just don’t have enough trucks to move everyone. If we could get them to Orleans, or Tours, we might be able to get some ships there to pick them up. We could ferry some to Plymouth, England; drive the others to Italy. We could also use choppers, though we’d only be able to carry...oh, fifteen, tops. The Black Hawk’s were only able to carry 11 fully-outfitted personnel.”

Duncan pursed his lips thoughtfully. “However,” he said, “if I contact Peter with the ‘call to arms’, we might be able to keep everyone in France, just redistribute them; Orleans and Tours, though that might be too close to Paris. Maybe further south, to Toulouse.”

“Peter,” Joe repeated the name slowly. “Are they ready?” he asked.

“They’ll have to be,” Duncan responded grimly. “With the withdrawal of the EPG, it looks like they’re all France has.”

Joe was silent for a moment, as he thought of the implications of issuing the call to arms. “You’re right. You’ll need to call Connor, too,” Joe suggested, resigned.

Duncan called Connor first. After he got off the comm unit with his kinsman, he placed the call to Paris. He dreaded having to give them the bad news, but they needed as much time as they could get to prepare for the upcoming evacuation. When the communications operator answered the transmission on the other end, he identified himself and asked for Enrique and Dr. Adams. He and Joe waited impatiently for the other two men to come on the line.

Finally, Enrique’s voice came across the connection. “Hey, Strider, what’s up?” he asked happily, oblivious to the danger he was facing.

“Enrique,” Duncan replied. “Is Ben there?”

“Yes, he’s right here,” Enrique replied.

“I’m here, Mac,” Methos said, and Duncan could hear the question in his voice. This was the first time they’d spoken since Duncan had taken Joe to Paris back in May.

“Secure the line,” Duncan told Enrique.

There was a gasp, and then Enrique said, “Strider?”

“Secure the line,” Duncan repeated shortly. He understood that Enrique was surprised; in the two years Enrique had run the Paris camp they’d never had to secure the line, but they didn’t have time to waste right now.

After a moment of silence, Enrique was back on the line. “Communications secured,” he said, his voice a bit shaky.

“What’s wrong, Mac?” Methos asked, and Joe could hear the strain in his voice.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have time to pretty this up, so listen carefully,” Duncan began. “The EPG is pulling out of France, and we need to evacuate Paris. We have very little time; they’re pulling out as we speak. They’re leaving the field to Carmine.”

“Carmine?” Methos hissed the hated name.

“Oh, shit!” Enrique groaned.

“You need to keep everyone from panicking. I need you to start packing everything you can move quickly, including tents, food, *everything*,” Duncan emphasized. “We’ll be there two hours before dawn with every available truck and chopper to evacuate everyone.”

“Where are we going?” Enrique asked.

“We’ll worry about that, you just make sure everyone is ready to go,” Joe answered.

“Enrique,” Duncan said, “I have every confidence in you. You wouldn’t be director of the Paris camp if I didn’t. But...Ben can help you. He is very...wise.” Duncan thought he heard Methos snort, but ignored him. “Use him; listen to him,” Duncan encouraged. “Any questions, either of you?”

“No,” both men replied, their minds already on the huge task ahead of them.

“Then we’ll see you at 04:00,” Duncan said. “Be careful,” he added.

Duncan cut the connection, and then turned to Joe. “Now to brief the Rangers.” He typed a code into the main computer, and sent it. Yellow lights began to flash and loud buzzers went off throughout the complex, signaling an emergency briefing. Five minutes later, Duncan and Joe entered a large, cavernous room which was located below-ground in the concrete bunker. Nearly two hundred men and women awaited them.

Duncan and Joe explained the situation to the Rangers, who were quick to grasp their instructions. Ranger teams 1 and 2 were set the jobs of readying the helos; teams 3 and 4, the trucks; and teams 5 and 6, the water craft. Teams 7 and 8 were to pull out the heavy artillery and make sure everyone was armed, and teams 9 & 10 were to secure the base.

They had six hours before the trucks needed to leave Bordeaux to reach Paris by 04:00. At 01:00, the water craft would leave for Tours, and at 02:30, the choppers would lift off.

Duncan knew that he would be of little help to the Ranger teams, so he and Joe headed back to the office to finalize their plans for redistributing the refugees from the Paris camp to other camps in France and the rest of Europe. Before he reached the office, Duncan detoured to the communications center.

“Where are you going?” Joe asked.

“To contact Peter,” Duncan replied.

Joe remained silent, but gripped Duncan’s arm in a gesture of friendship and support, and then continued on to the office. Duncan strode purposefully into the communications center and sat before the computer, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he considered his words, and then he began to type:

> Call to Arms. This is not a drill. EPG retreating; Carmine to take the field. Evacuating Paris. Repeat - Call to Arms.

He encrypted the message and sent it code red. Duncan smiled grimly as he imagined Peter’s reaction as the alarms went off when this message hit his in-box.

After sending the message, Duncan joined Joe in the office. By 18:00, Duncan had a headache and could barely focus; the stress of the situation was catching up with him. Because they’d done all they could do as far as planning the evacuation, including contacting the Hope Chest administrators in some of the other camps and instructing them to expect more refugees, Joe urged Duncan to rest for a couple of hours. Duncan refused, only agreeing when he realized that Joe had been talking to him for fifteen minutes and he couldn’t remember a word the other man had said.

 

 _1940 June 3, 2052  
Ranger Base Three  
Bordeaux, France_

* * *

  
It seemed as if he had just fallen asleep, when a loud squawk woke him. Duncan grabbed for the comm unit at his waist, and lifted it to his face. “Yeah?” he asked sleepily.

“Trouble,” Joe didn’t waste words. “Communications.”

Duncan had fallen asleep fully clothed, only removing his boots for comfort. He quickly pulled the boots on and tied them, and then raced down the hallway and up the stairs to the communications room.

“What is it?” he asked, before he’d cleared the doorway.

“I think Carmine’s reached Paris,” Joe quickly replied. “We received this garbled transmission,” he cued the recorded communication.

The harsh scratch of static erupted from the speakers and filled the room, and then Methos’ voice could barely be heard, “...bombs falling...dead...leave now...”

“Son of a...!” Duncan swore, angrily kicking a chair across the room. “He didn’t even wait for the EPG to leave! He must have been on the move as soon as he got word of the pull-out. Damn him! And now we have to find them. Methos doesn’t even know where to go!” Duncan worried.

“Enrique knows to head south,” Joe tried to reassure him.

“If he’s still alive,” Duncan muttered, typing another code into the computer. Within moments, red lights began to flash and the buzzer went off again. “What time is it?” he asked.

“19:45,” Joe replied.

“Christ, we’re not going to be able to see anything on the ground!”

“Neither will Carmine. And he won’t know they’ve left, because he doesn’t know we had any warning at all. He probably believes that they’re still in Paris, too shocked to do anything. We’ll have the advantage, because we know they’re on the move,” Joe said.

“I hope you’re right, Joe,” Duncan said, leading the way to the assembled Rangers.

Within ten minutes, the Rangers had been briefed and twelve trucks were manned with a driver and a team of six Rangers for protection; eight boats, with a pilot and a team of Rangers. Three of the fifteen choppers were crewed with a pilot, co-pilot, and radar technician, stocked with medical supplies, and set to begin the search for the evacuees. The Rangers who remained at the base would continue prepping the rest of the choppers and guard the base.

Duncan was piloting one of the choppers. He was anxious to find Enrique and the refugees, but he was desperately concerned about finding Methos and making sure he was alright. Before climbing into the bird, he placed a call to Peter.

“Strider?” Peter’s voice came over the secure line after the com-tech found him.

“Peter,” Duncan skipped the pleasantries, “how many men have you got available?”

“5000 on the roll, 2000 on base,” Peter replied.

“Paris is being bombed,” Duncan explained. “They had to evac ahead of schedule. We’re moving out now to try and intercept, but we don’t know exactly where they are. We have three choppers coming in to search for them, but I need you to send some patrols out and see if you can find them; check all roads out of Paris heading south. When you find them, ask for Enrique Palermo, the director of the camp, or Dr. Benjamin Adams, and call me immediately with their location.”

Duncan heard the ‘clang’ which indicated that Peter had initiated code red on his end. “Done,” Peter said. “How did Carmine get there so soon?”

“Damned if I know,” Duncan replied. “Hurry, Peter,” he urged, and then cut the connection. Duncan turned to see Joe waiting for him by the chopper.

“Find Methos,” Joe grasped Duncan’s arm.

“I will,” Duncan replied.

“And come back safely,” Joe added.

“We will,” Duncan assured him, and then climbed into the Pave Hawk. “Start-up?” he asked.

“Completed,” James, his co-pilot, replied.

Duncan nodded. “How’s the radar equipment look?” he asked.

“Everything seems to be working,” Serena replied from the engineer’s chair.

“Weapons?” Duncan asked.

“Operational,” James replied.

“Excellent,” Duncan said, flicking the switches that turned on the engines and the rotor blades. The chopper lifted off and Duncan steered it northward, beginning the flight towards Paris.

 

 _2100 June 3, 2052  
Somewhere outside of  
Paris, France_

* * *

  
They had been walking for over an hour, but they hadn’t gotten very far; their pace slowed by children, the elderly, and the injured. Methos was at the head of the group, leading them south. Enrique had told him which direction to head, confident that Mac had gotten their message and would be there soon to pick them up and ferry them to safety. Methos knew better than to depend on someone else, because sometimes, you were all you had.

After Mac’s call, Enrique had briefed the administrative members of the camp, and then they had all moved throughout the camp, quickly delivering the message to everyone. Every able-bodied person had been put to work packing up personal belongings, food, tents, and equipment, and loading as much as they could into the jeeps. In the end, their preparation hadn’t mattered, because Carmine had gotten to Paris before Mac could pull them out.

When the bombs started falling, panic had immediately set in. Enrique had been able to instill a semblance of order, and had ordered Methos to begin the march out of Paris. Ironically, Methos had been packing up the communications gear when the first bombs exploded. He sent a message off to Mac, and then grabbed the nearest child and shouted for her family to follow him. Others had joined the procession, and the second evacuation of Paris began.

Methos slowed his step, as over the sound of shuffling footsteps, crying children, and muffled conversations, he heard...a motor. Methos froze as he tried to determine from which direction the sound was coming. The crowd behind him stopped moving and slowly fell silent. Suddenly, headlights lit up the sky as a jeep crested the hill a hundred yards in front of them. The jeep came from the south, and Methos prayed that it wasn’t one of Carmine’s patrols.

Headlights illuminated Methos and his charges as a second, and then a third jeep came into view. The jeep in the lead rolled to a stop, and the other two took up flanking positions. Methos squinted his eyes against the glare, watching as a man in uniform climbed out of the passenger side of the middle jeep and stepped into the light cast by the headlights.

“Enrique Palermo?” he called out. “Dr. Benjamin Adams?”

“Who’s asking?” Methos responded.

The man took another step forward. “Colonel Peter Chenard,” he replied.

“Are you a Ranger?” Methos asked. Colonel Chenard laughed.

“No,” he said. “French militia. And you are?”

“Dr. Adams,” Methos admitted, shifting the young girl he held to his other arm.

“Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Adams, though the circumstances could be better,” the colonel said, as he pulled out a radio. “Connect me with Ranger One,” he commanded into the comm unit. Moments later, Mac’s voice came over the radio, and Methos felt his knees weaken at the sound of it.

“Ranger One.”

“Ranger One, this is Freedom One. Mission accomplished,” Chenard informed him.

“Thank god.” Methos could hear the relief in Mac’s voice. “Enrique? Ben?”

“Dr. Adams is here in front of me. I haven’t seen Palermo yet,” the Colonel continued to brief MacLeod.

“He’s in the back,” Methos supplied.

“Dr. Adams informs me that Palermo is further back in the group,” Chenard passed on the information.

“Give me your coordinates so I can get the other choppers in the air,” Mac ordered.

Colonel Chenard passed the coordinates along to Mac, and then contacted the patrols he had checking other roads out of Paris so they could converge on the group of civilians. If Carmine followed them, they’d need protection.

 

 _2105 June 3, 2052  
Duncan’s Pave Hawk  
Somewhere between Bordeaux and Paris_

* * *

  
Duncan had been flying the chopper toward Paris for one hour and ten minutes when he received the communication from Peter that Methos and the refugees had been located. He’d felt lightheaded at the news that Methos was alright. As soon as he received the coordinates from Peter, he’d altered their flight pattern and had James contact Ranger Base Three.

Joe had answered their call, a fact which surprised Duncan not at all. Within moments, the remaining 12 choppers were in the air and headed toward their rendezvous point. Joe offered to contact the trucks and inform them of the exact pick-up location, and then asked about ‘Ben’.

“Oh, sorry, Joe,” Duncan apologized for not saying something. “Adam...Adams is fine.”

Ten minutes later, the chopper spot light illuminated three jeeps and a group of people that numbered in the thousands. Duncan set the Pave Hawk down in a field beside the road, jumped out of the chopper, leaving James to shut it down, and raced to meet Peter, who was walking across the field towards him.

“Status?” Duncan asked.

“I’ve called in the rest of my patrols, just in case Carmine follows them. Now that they’ve stopped running, we’ve been able to sort the injured for triage,” Peter informed him.

“How many?” Duncan asked.

“A couple hundred. Most are minor, cuts, scrapes, bruises, but some are more serious. Dr. Adams has treated as many as he can. In addition to the deaths at the camp, there were three fatalities on the march.”

“Oh, God,” Duncan groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. “Serena!” he called to the woman who had just jumped out of the chopper. “Medical supplies.”

Duncan and Peter watched as Serena opened the door and hopped into the belly of the helicopter. She tossed a bag to James, and then jumped out with a bag over her own shoulder. She and James ran over to Duncan and Peter, and then Peter led them to the area where the injured had been laid out.

“Dr. Adams,” Peter called to Methos as they approached. “We have medical supplies.”

Methos had felt Mac’s buzz as soon as he jumped out of the chopper. He’d thought the buzz would be muted due to all of the noise surrounding him, but something, perhaps the stress, had made it stronger. “Great. Can I get some more light?” he asked, as he took the bag held out to him by the female Ranger he’d seen at the camp back in April.

“Of course,” Peter said. “We’ll see if we can move the jeeps closer.”

“We can help,” Duncan offered. “I’ve had medic training,” he reminded Methos unnecessarily, “and all of the Rangers have some first aid training. We can take the slighter injuries while you and Dr. Goulde handle the more serious.”

“Alright,” Methos agreed. “Cuts and scrapes, sprained ankles, and stitches, are down on that end,” he pointed. “The injuries get more serious as they get closer to this end.”

Duncan nodded at Methos, and then turned to the two Rangers. “James, Serena, begin first aid treatment of the injured.” The two moved off and Duncan turned back to Methos. “I’ve called in the rest of the Hawks, but it will take them an hour and a half to get here. And we’ll only be able to fit about fifteen people on each chopper. We have trucks coming, but it will be another four and a half hours before they arrive.”

Methos just nodded at this information. There was nothing he could do to bring help more quickly, so he resigned himself to doing the best he could in the circumstances. Surprisingly, MacLeod reached out and gripped his arm, and Methos startled, finding himself staring into Mac’s warm brown eyes.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Duncan said, squeezing Methos’ arm, and then removing his hand. It tingled where he had touched Methos. He wondered what had gotten into him. He needed to keep his distance, but it felt so good to be near the older Immortal again. Just the feel of Methos’ buzz in his head was reassuring.

“Where’s Enrique?” Duncan asked.

Methos turned to look at the mass of humanity grouped behind him. “Somewhere in there, along with the other administrators,” he answered. “Trying to give comfort.”

“Alright,” Duncan replied. “I’ll let you...,” he pointed at the injured surrounding them, and then took a step back, turning and joining Peter. After informing Peter about the evacuation situation, Duncan joined James and Serena. Within fifteen minutes, the other two search choppers arrived, and six more Rangers joined the medical effort. Not long after, all of the French Militia patrols arrived, and Peter and Duncan arranged a perimeter guard.

When Enrique appeared, he, Duncan, and Peter gathered around the lead jeep, a map spread on the hood, and discussed the next step in the evacuation. When the choppers arrived, the injured would be the first of the refugees flown out. They, and their families, would be housed in Orleans. Duncan refused to break up families if he could help it.

When the choppers returned, the next wave would be flown to Tours, where the water craft would ferry them to Plymouth, England. It would take several trips to get all of the refugees to Tours; and they’d have to wait on the water craft. The last wave of refugees would be flown and driven to the camp at Toulouse, and then they would return to Bordeaux to await Connor’s arrival. It was going to be a very long night.

 

 _1000 June 4, 2052  
Refugee Camp  
Toulouse, France_

* * *

  
Duncan was exhausted. There had been times in his long life when he had been awake and on his feet for longer periods of time, but the stress of evacuation and piloting the chopper for almost thirteen hours straight had taken its toll. He was sitting in the communications tent in Toulouse, the headset lying on the table in front of him, as he spoke into the microphone and listened to Joe’s responses over the speaker. Nothing they were discussing now was classified; everyone had heard the news that the EPG had pulled out of France and that Paris had been bombed and evacuated.

They were discussing the current location of the trucks that were on their way to Toulouse, loaded with refugees. The choppers had arrived over an hour ago. It would take the trucks seven hours to reach Toulouse from Paris, which meant that they wouldn’t arrive here until 14:00 hours, four hours hence. Peter had assigned several patrols to the convoy as protection from Carmine’s forces, should the General realize that Paris had been evacuated during the night and make a move on the refugees. Duncan and Joe decided to send five choppers back to escort the trucks so that Peter’s forces could return to their base. They had their own jobs to perform, now that the EPG was withdrawing.

***

The twelve choppers that had remained behind at the base until the refugees were found, loaded with additional medical supplies, food, and clothing for the refugees, and additional fuel for the choppers, had reached Paris by 23:00 hours, and they had immediately unloaded the bays, filled them with the wounded and their families, and flown them, along with Dr. Goulde, to a farm outside Orleans that was secretly owned by Hope Chest.

The choppers reloaded and made a trip to Tours before the trucks reached Paris. Each wave included at least one Hope Chest administrative personnel in the hopes that he or she would be able to keep the refugees calm and provide a semblance of continuity. As soon as the trucks arrived, refugees were loaded onto the trucks and choppers. Since it would take the trucks five hours to make the round trip to Tours and back to Paris, the choppers were able to make three trips. By 07:00, the trucks and choppers were once again outside Paris; they had already moved over eighteen hundred refugees to Orleans and Tours, Enrique Palermo accompanying the last wave of refugees to Tours, where they were being loaded onto boats and ferried to Plymouth, England.

Duncan thanked god that most of the Paris refugees had found homes, either with friends or relatives, in the wake of the destruction of that once beautiful city. The Paris camp had held over three thousand people before the bombing, and it was quite an effort to evacuate them all with the resources they had at hand, but it would have been nearly impossible if the refugees had numbered in the tens of thousands.

The last of the refugees, nearly one thousand, were loaded on the choppers and trucks for relocation to Toulouse. The Rangers and Peter’s men were helping the refugees onto the trucks, and into the choppers. Duncan suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen Methos in a while, although he could still sense him. He walked through the teeming mass of people until he felt the buzz get stronger. When he finally caught sight of the older Immortal, Duncan stopped and watched him.

Methos was kneeling on the ground, one arm around a young girl. She had short blonde hair that fell in her face, and she was holding a ratty teddy bear; probably the only thing she’d been able to salvage from the camp. Surprisingly, she wasn’t crying and didn’t seem to be upset. Rather, it looked like she and Methos were conducting a serious conversation. Duncan leaned against a nearby truck and watched as Methos pointed to the trucks and choppers, and then turned back to the child, still talking.

When the girl’s parents retrieved her so they could get onto one of the waiting trucks, Methos stood and wiped at the knees of his trousers. He waved goodbye to her, and then walked over to where Duncan was waiting.

“You look like hell,” Duncan said softly. The old man looked like he was ready to keel over from exhaustion.

“Thanks,” Methos replied dryly, “so do you.”

“I meant,” Duncan closed his eyes. Would there forever be only misunderstanding and miscommunication between them? “I meant that you looked tired,” he corrected.

Methos gave a wry grin. “So did I.”

“Right,” Duncan responded with a slight grin of his own. His burden suddenly felt lighter. “I presume you’ll be accompanying us to Toulouse,” he said, making it sound like a question.

“I thought I might,” Methos replied, eyebrows raised.

“Would you...would you ride with me?” Duncan managed to ask, despite the fact that it felt like his throat was closing up.

“I thought your chopper was full,” Methos said.

“Not the cockpit,” Duncan replied.

Methos was quiet for a moment as he digested this, then, “Alright,” he shrugged, and turned away. “Coming?” he called back over his shoulder.

Duncan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes and watched Methos walk away from him, and then smiled. “I’m coming, old man,” he said softly.

***

After deciding to fly back to the Ranger base, where five choppers, two weapons-bearing Pave Hawks and three refitted Black Hawks, would be refueled and manned with a fresh crew and a team of Rangers, and then sent out to escort the convoy to Toulouse, Duncan turned to Methos. “Got a minute before we leave?” he asked.

“Sure,” Methos replied, eyes narrowed warily.

Duncan thanked the communications tech and led the way out of the tent. The camp was a bustle of activity as the new refugees were sorted and placed in temporary shelters. He stopped walking and swayed as the noise and movement rushed over him. Methos grabbed his arm to steady him, and Duncan grasped his hand, squeezing it before he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m alright.”

Duncan led the way out of the camp, and then stood facing south. Methos let his professional eyes run over the other man. He was so tense, his shoulders nearly touched his ears, and he was worn-out, his energy reserves depleted. Methos wondered when the younger man had last gotten a decent night’s sleep.

“You’re not alright,” Methos spoke softly, so as not to spook the other man, who seemed to have forgotten he was even there.

“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure,” Duncan replied, trying to sound upbeat, not wanting Methos to feel as if he needed the other Immortal to take care of him.

“Is there anything I can do?” Methos asked, and Duncan couldn’t stop the short, harsh laugh that escaped his throat.

“Can you make the war end? Or, go back to before it even started? Better yet, go back fifty years, to before you left Paris...,” Duncan broke off, knowing he probably sounded hysterical. ‘Way to go, MacLeod,’ he thought. He held up a hand, and said, “I’m sorry. That’s not what I wanted to say to you.”

Duncan stared out over the field before him for a long moment before he spoke again. “Will you be staying in Toulouse?” he finally asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Methos replied. “They don’t seem to need another doctor...”

“They can always use another doctor,” Duncan argued.

“...and besides, I feel out of place here. Paris felt like home.”

“Oh,” Duncan nodded. “Where will you go?” he asked, afraid that Methos wouldn’t answer him, wouldn’t want him to know where he went.

“I thought I’d go with you,” Methos replied, his voice husky with emotion. Despite appearances that Mac missed him, and Joe’s observations in support of that conclusion, Methos was still afraid of being rejected.

“No! Absolutely not!” Duncan replied, as soon as the meaning of Methos’ words pierced his fog-filled mind and he got over the joy that Methos wasn’t planning on running again. “It’s too dangerous!”

Methos’ emotions were all over the place. He felt glad when he saw the happiness on Duncan’s face, and then deeply hurt when Duncan said ‘no’. He started to close up, close himself off, until Mac mentioned the danger. Danger! The man was trying to keep him out of danger? He was in France, for the gods’ sakes! He felt joyous and angry at the same time. Idiot child!

“More dangerous than Paris was?” he asked calmly.

“Yes!” Duncan replied without hesitation.

“Mac, all of France is dangerous. There’s a war going on. Especially now that Carmine is invading,” Methos argued logically.

“I am not going to be responsible for putting you in danger!” Duncan hissed. “Not again,” he whispered as he turned his back on Methos.

“What do you mean?” Methos asked. “Mac?”

“Look, Methos,” Duncan shook his head, his voice unsteady. “I know why you left Paris. And I’m not going to do that to you again.”

“Do you?” Methos asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Why do you think I left Paris, Mac?”

“Because of me. Because I put you in danger...”

“Oh, bloody... That’s not true, Mac,” Methos reached out and touched Duncan’s shoulder. How could the Highlander have come to that ridiculous conclusion?

“It *is* true,” Duncan insisted. “I’ve had fifty years - fifty-four years and seven months - to think about it. Because of me you were pulled back into the game. You placed yourself in harm’s way to protect me. Being around me endangered you. I won’t do that to you again. I can’t....,” his voice dropped.

“Fine,” Methos said. “I disagree with your assessment, but if you don’t want me to go back with you, I won’t. Maybe I’ll go back to Paris; see what Colonel Chenard is doing. I think he mentioned something about a French Militia...”

“Absolutely not!” Duncan nearly yelled, as he turned, grabbed Methos’ shoulders, and shook him.

Methos wanted to laugh out loud with the unexpected joy he was feeling, but managed to keep his smile under control, letting only a small smirk escape as his eyes ran over Duncan’s face. The man was truly desperate to keep him safe! “The only way for you to keep me out of trouble,” he leaned close enough to Duncan so that his breath feathered across the other man’s face, “is to keep me close enough to keep an eye on. Besides, I want to see Joe.”

Methos pulled out of Duncan’s grip, gave one last smirk, combined with an infuriating eyebrow lift, and then turned and walked back towards the camp. Duncan felt the blood suffuse his skin as his jaw dropped open in shocked surprise. The damned fool had called his bluff. Paris or Bordeaux. No way could he let Methos out of his sight. He’d worry night and day that the other man was with Peter and the French Militia taking on Carmine’s forces.

Not that Bordeaux would be much safer, but at least he’d be able to keep an eye on him, Duncan allowed. Besides, he didn’t want to let the old man out of his sight anyway. The choice had really already been made.

“Do you think James’ll show me how the weapons console works?” Methos’ voice drifted back over his shoulder.

“Damn you, old man!” Duncan called to him. When Methos’ only response was to turn his head and grin unrepentantly at him, Duncan started after him. Methos slowed his steps so Duncan could catch up to him. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he said, as they fell into step.

“And yet, you missed me,” Methos said, making it sound like Duncan was the idiot.

“Every minute,” Duncan replied softly.

 

 _1100 June 4, 2052  
Ranger Base Three  
Bordeaux, France_

* * *

  
An hour later, after Mac had said goodbye to Andrew Lacroix, the director of the Toulouse camp, rounded up the Rangers, and led the lift-off for home, the previously-abandoned submarine base at Bordeaux came into sight. Methos nearly swallowed his tongue when he realized that they weren’t just flying over it, but preparing to land.

“Ranger Base Three, this is Ranger One, requesting permission to land,” Duncan spoke into his mouthpiece, his voice ringing loud and clear in Methos’ ear over the headset he was wearing.

“Mac!” Joe’s voice came over the comm. Methos could tell he was relieved that Mac had made it back in one piece. By his next words, Methos realized that MacLeod had come to the same conclusion.

“Joe! What about the password?” he teased.

“I recognize your voice, Mac...,” Joe began.

“Yes, but I could be being held hostage and forced to land,” Duncan continued.

“Oh, for god’s sake, what’s the bloody password!” Joe replied, exasperated.

“Candy-gram,” Duncan replied with a grin.

There was silence, both in the cockpit and over the radio, at the strange codeword. Methos’ breath caught in his throat as he remembered the day almost sixty years ago, when he’d appeared on Duncan’s door and greeted him with that very word. Finally, Joe broke the silence.

“Candy-gram? What in hell is that supposed to mean? Just for that, wise ass, I shouldn’t let you land!” his words sounded angry, but he couldn’t hide the laughter in his voice.

“It means I’ve brought you a present,” Duncan said, smiling at Joe’s response.

“A present? There’s only one present I want,” Joe said hopefully, “and he’s old and ornery. That him?”

“That’s him!” Duncan laughed out loud, unable to contain the happiness that suffused his body any longer. Methos’ physical presence combined with the buzz of his presence in Duncan’s head, were dizzying; a sensation he enjoyed more than a sip of his favorite scotch.

“Hey!” Methos finally spoke in pretend-irritation. “I resemble that remark.”

“Get down here. All of you!” Joe said. “Base out.”

Five minutes later, they were on the ground. Methos watched as Duncan and James shut-down the chopper, and felt the vibration decrease as the rotors slowed. Duncan pulled off his headset, hung them on their perch, and climbed out of the chopper. Methos followed James out of the chopper and they walked around the front of the helo to meet Duncan and Serena.

Duncan sent James and Serena off for food and rest, and then turned to Methos. “Welcome to Ranger Base Three,” he said nervously. He hadn’t figured out how to tell Methos that they were headed for Bordeaux, so he hadn’t said anything.

“Bordeaux?” Methos asked, both eyebrows raised, his lips pressed together in a manner that made his cheeks dimple sexily...

‘Whoa!’ Duncan thought. ‘Better put a halt to that train of thought right now!’

Duncan shrugged, and smiled sheepishly. “I liked the irony,” he admitted. “Plus, the location,” he indicated the waterway. “Picturing Kronos rolling in his grave was just a bonus.” He turned away from Methos and started walking towards Joe, who was waiting for them just off of the landing pad.

“Mac,” Joe said in relief when the two men reached him.

“Joe,” Duncan responded, and leaned in for a quick hug.

Joe squeezed him tight, the knowledge that things were going to get a lot more interesting coloring his emotional reaction. Letting go of Mac, he reached out for Methos. “Get over here, old man,” he said, pulling the older Immortal into a hug. “It’s so good to see you. I’m glad you’re both alright,” Joe said.

“Have you heard from Connor?” Duncan asked Joe.

“Yep,” Joe said, pulling back, but not letting go of Methos. “He’ll be here in about three hours. Time enough for you two to grab some food, a shower, and a quick nap.”

“I’m not hungry,” Duncan said. His stomach was in knots, now that the first flush of Methos’ presence was wearing off and thoughts of what he was about to do filled his mind.

“Well, then, you can keep me company,” Joe replied. “Nothing you can do until he gets here.”

“I need to...,” Duncan pointed at the choppers and activity around them.

“Teams have already been assigned, and the maintenance crew looks like they know what they’re doing,” Joe retorted. “Come on, both of you.” He turned his chair and headed towards the mess.

“You going to tell him ‘no’?” Methos asked.

“Not in this lifetime,” Duncan shook his head, and followed Joe.

***

Duncan and Methos followed Joe to the mess. Joe maneuvered his chair up to an empty table; Methos sat across from him while Duncan grabbed three coffee cups and a pot of coffee. He carried the pot over to the table, set the cups down, and filled them.

“Welcome back, Strider,” a young man greeted Duncan.

“Thanks, Sandy,” Duncan smiled at the young soldier. “How’s it going?”

“Great, sir. You ready for some stew, Joe?” the young Ranger turned his attention to the older man.

“I sure am. It smells great. Give me some of that bread, too,” Joe said.

“How about you, sir?” Sandy asked Duncan.

“Nothing for me, Sandy,” Duncan replied.

“Sir?” Sandy looked at Methos, who looked up in surprise at being addressed as ‘sir’.

“Uh, no, thanks,” he responded.

“Okay, one stew with bread coming right up,” Sandy turned a smile on Joe.

Joe just shook his head in mild irritation, and held up three fingers. Sandy nodded his head in understanding, and retreated into the kitchen. Duncan and Methos silently fixed their coffees, and both moaned after taking their first sip. Joe, who’d lifted his own cup to his lips, laughed, glad he hadn’t taken a drink yet.

“Christ, you two are pathetic,” he muttered, and took a sip of his own coffee. “Ah, yeah, that is good. Sandy,” he emphasized, “has been making the coffee. We need to keep that kid on k.p.!”

Just then, Sandy reappeared with a tray in his hands. He set a bowl of steaming stew in front of each of the three men, and a plate of warm bread in the middle of the table. Duncan cast an exasperated look at Joe.

“Don’t give me that look. You need to eat. So eat.” Joe stirred the stew and breathed in the scent. “Mmm,” he moaned appreciatively, reaching for the bread and butter.

“It does smell good, Joe,” Methos admitted, as he breathed in the aroma.

Both men made short order of the stew and bread, and Joe sent them off to the showers after procuring a change of clothes for Methos, and promising to wake Duncan when he heard from Connor, with instructions for Duncan to show Methos to Joe’s quarters to rest.

Duncan led Methos to his own quarters so he could pick up his shower kit and a clean pair of briefs and pants, and remove his boots. Methos took the opportunity to survey the sparsely furnished room. There was a cot and a chest of drawers. At the end of the cot was a trunk that Methos recognized from the barge.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said.

“You’re a laugh a minute, Methos. I’d forgotten that about you,” Duncan retorted. “Come on, bozo.” He led the way down the hall to the men’s shower. The showers were nearly filled when they arrived, the chopper crews eager to get some sleep after having finally gotten something to eat. Duncan removed his clothes and tossed them into the laundry bin, and then instructed Methos to do the same. “They’ll be washed and returned to you. If you want them,” Duncan said, as he pulled his braid around and began to untie the leather strap.

“Why wouldn’t I want them?” Methos asked, tossing the dirty clothing into the bin as Duncan had done.

“Brown’s not really your color, is it?” Duncan asked with a slight smile.

“Oh, and camouflage green is?” Methos retorted. “Here, let me,” he reached out and took the braid out of Mac’s hand, and turned the other man around. It wasn’t exactly how he’d hoped it would happen, but MacLeod was naked and Methos had the braid in his hands. He nearly laughed at his own sick humor. He carefully unbraided the hair, and then took Mac’s brush out of his shower kit and brushed it out.

“Brings out the green of your eyes,” Duncan replied lightly, as he let Methos take the braid out of his hands, and obediently turned his back so the other man could unbraid his hair.

The act was strangely intimate, a fact which, oddly enough, had little to do with his nakedness and more to do with the man standing close behind him. He loved to have his hair played with, and that it was Methos touching his hair with such gentle care made his heart pound. He thanked God that they weren’t alone in the shower, as Methos’ touch elicited a reaction in Duncan’s groin. Although, from the looks of things, his body was too exhausted to show more than a cursory interest, and he easily willed it away.

When Methos was done with Duncan’s hair, Duncan grabbed his shower kit and some towels, and carried them into the shower area. He found two free showerheads near each other and claimed one, setting the towels and kit down far enough away so they wouldn’t get wet, taking only the soap and shampoo into the shower area.

Methos turned on the water and stepped under the spray. Because of his long hair, it took Duncan longer to shower. Methos luxuriated in the hot shower, and remained under the spray watching the other man as he rinsed his hair and began to soap up his body. ‘He is bloody gorgeous,’ Methos thought, and felt his body respond to the sight of the other man. He wanted to reach out and run a finger down Duncan’s back and over his bum.

Methos squelched the urge, but groaned, and had to turn away when Duncan quickly cleaned his groin, as the image of lending a helping hand filled his mind. Methos turned the shower off and sauntered over to the towels, picked one up and began to dry himself off. He made a point of stretching and arching his back as he flicked the towel across his bum.

Duncan was rinsing the soap off of his body when Methos turned off his shower and started drying himself off. He lost track of what he was doing as he stared at the older Immortal. The man was beautiful, and Duncan wanted to touch him. Methos arched his back temptingly, and Duncan felt his body respond again. So much for being exhausted. He turned away from Methos and turned the water onto cold, letting it shock his erection away before turning the knob off and moving to join Methos by the towels.

Duncan wrapped one of the towels around his hair, and then dried off and dressed in his boxers and pants. Methos dressed slowly, marveling that the clothes he had been supplied with actually fit. Duncan watched the other man dress while he re-packed his shower kit, smiling as Methos actually preened in the clean clothes which fit him perfectly, showing off his ass and biceps to great advantage.

Duncan toweled his hair dry, and then retrieved his comb and began to comb the snarls out. Methos watched him for a minute, and then held his hand out. Duncan stared at the hand, and then placed the comb in it. “Sit,” Methos ordered.

Duncan straddled the bench, and Methos sat behind him. Methos slowly, gently, combed the snarls out of Duncan’s hair, and then sectioned it and began to braid it. Duncan let his head fall forward as he relaxed into Methos’ touch. He tied the leather strap around the end of the braid when he was finished, and then stroked his fingers along Duncan’s shoulder.

“You still awake?” he asked softly, and Duncan laughed softly.

“Yeah, barely. Thanks,” he added, “that felt good.”

“Welcome,” Methos said, tapping his hand against Duncan’s shoulder. “How about you show me where I can get some shuteye?” he suggested.

“Of course,” Duncan quickly stood and picked up his shower kit. Methos gathered up the two pair of boots, his brown, and the black military-style Joe had issued him, and followed Duncan out of the shower room. Duncan led the way down the hall to Joe’s room and stepped inside.

“This is Joe’s room,” he said unnecessarily. Methos set his boots down and looked around the room. It was as impersonal as Mac’s, except for a picture on the chest. Methos walked over and picked the frame up. It was a picture of the three of them, taken one night in Le Blues Bar.

“Well,” Duncan said, as he watched the emotions play across Methos’ face. The old man claimed to care for no one but himself, ‘I didn’t last 5000 years by worrying about anyone but myself’. He was such a fraud. “I guess I’ll go get some rest myself. My room is next door...if you need anything. You remember how to get up to the office?”

“Yeah,” Methos said, putting the picture down. “And if I get lost, I’ll ask for directions.”

“Alright,” Duncan nodded. “Goodnight, Methos.”

“Mac,” Methos inclined his head. “Sleep well.”

Duncan backed out of the room, and padded down the hall to his own. He stripped out of his pants and lay down on the bed in just his boxers. Thoughts of Connor’s imminent arrival and Methos’ presence in the next room filled his head, and he didn’t think he’d ever get to sleep. His memory of Methos reaching for his braid was the last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him.

 

 _1340 June 4, 2052  
Ranger Base Three  
Bordeaux, France_

* * *

  
Duncan’s comm unit went off and he groped blindly along the top of the chest until he found it. “Yeah?” he groggily answered the call.

“Hey, Mac,” Joe sounded chipper, “this is your wake-up call, buddy.”

“What time is it?” Duncan groaned, flopping back onto the cot. He felt like he’d only just closed his eyes.

“13:40,” Joe replied. “Connor just called; they’ll be docking in about twenty minutes. I thought you might like some time to wake up before you greet him.”

“Yeah, thanks, Joe. I’ll be up in ten,” Duncan flicked the comm off as he sat up, and tossed it on the cot beside him before reaching for his pants. He felt like hell; less than four hours of sleep in the last thirty.

He got dressed and then went to the shower room to splash cold water on his face and clean his mouth. Steam from running showers and the muted sound of conversation filled the room. Duncan popped in a mouth refresher cube and grimaced as it melted. As it turned to liquid form, it fizzed and bubbled, reminding him of a cross between the old Alka Seltzer tablets and those candies that popped in your mouth.

As soon as the bubbling died down, he spit the now-liquid ‘fresher into the sink and rinsed his mouth, then splashed his face. He reached for a towel and dried his face as he stared at himself in the mirror. He ran a damp hand over his hair to smooth it down, the sight of the braid reminding him of Methos. Duncan threw the towel down on the sink and left the room. He stopped at Joe’s room before heading up the stairs to the office.

Methos was lying on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow, the blanket nearly falling off of him. Duncan moved silently into the room and stared down at his friend; the man he loved. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and ran his hand lightly over Methos’ head and down his back. His short, spiky hair was soft as velvet, his skin silky smooth. Duncan shook himself, picked up the blanket, and covered Methos with it, then turned and left the room.

When he got up to the office, Joe had a cup of coffee waiting for him. “Had Sandy bring us a pot before he went off-duty,” Joe smiled as Duncan took a sip and groaned his approval.

“Anything happen in the last 24 hours I should know about?” Duncan asked as he sank into the wooden chair, remembering his old, comfortably *padded* desk chair fondly.

“Yeah, Paris was bombed and evacuated,” Joe replied dryly.

“Ha, ha. Very funny. You’re almost as amusing as the old man,” Duncan said.

“Speaking of the old man,” Joe moved the conversation where he wanted it to go. “How long is he going to be here?”

“I’m not sure,” Duncan replied with a frown. “We didn’t really talk about it.”

“Didn’t he give you any indication when he came with you?” Joe asked.

“No, dammit, I didn’t want him to come in the first place!” Duncan grumbled.

“Why in hell not?” Joe asked. “You’ve been moping over him for fifty years!”

“I have not been moping,” Duncan mumbled.

“Uh huh,” Joe ignored him. “Why not?”

“Because it’s dangerous!” Duncan hissed.

“All of France is dangerous, Mac,” Joe said, “and Methos was in the Paris camp for over two years. Not to mention he’s 5000 years old.”

“Yes, France is dangerous, and going to get more dangerous, but being *here* will be even *more* dangerous! He’d have been safer if he’d stayed in Toulouse,” Duncan tried to explain his reasoning.

“Then why did you bring him?” Joe asked.

“Because he threatened to join Peter,” Duncan admitted with a frustrated shake of his head.

Joe laughed. “Crafty old bastard,” he applauded.

“You think it’s funny?” Duncan asked, irate.

“That after all of these years apart, he still knows how to work you? Yes, I think it’s funny. And sweet,” he added.

“Sweet?” Duncan’s voice squeaked. “Sweet? It’s not sweet. It’s...annoying. And aggravating. And irritating!”

“Ain’t love grand!” Joe enthused.

“Shut up, Joe,” Duncan muttered.

***

Methos woke up slowly, and stretched. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. It took him a second to remember that he was in Bordeaux, when he noticed that he wasn’t looking at the walls of his tent. As that realization hit, memories of the evacuation and Duncan filled his head. Duncan arriving outside Paris, looking for all the world like the Highland warrior he had once been - the only thing missing was the kilt; Duncan shyly asking him to fly in the chopper with him; Duncan, exhausted, as he spoke with Joe over the communications console; the look on Duncan’s face when he was unable to keep him safely in Toulouse; Duncan naked in the shower; and the feel of Duncan’s hair in his hands.

Methos felt his body respond to the memory of Duncan in the shower. He threw the blanket off and rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, and imagined each plane of the other man’s body; remembered the soft satin of Duncan’s hair over his fingers, and imagined the feel of it brushing over his bare chest as Duncan rose over him, placing kisses on his neck and down his chest, stopping to lick and suck a nipple before continuing down to his abdomen. Methos took himself in his hand as he imagined Duncan’s tongue swirling into his navel, and then licking a path up his hard penis.

His hand stroked and pulled, slow and steady, and then harder and faster, as he imagined Duncan taking him into his mouth, sucking on the head, and then taking him all the way down. He could almost feel the back of Duncan’s throat against the head of his cock; he ran his thumb over the tip, spreading the leaking fluid over the head, and then pressed his thumb against the nerves below the ridge as he brought his other hand down to cup his balls, lifting and squeezing them, pressing them against his shaft.

Imaginary Duncan cupped and squeezed his balls, then ran his fingers along the crack of Methos’ ass, teasing his hole. Methos began to pant, writhing wildy on the cot. ‘Mac,’ he thought, ‘gods, Mac!’ Duncan pressed a finger into him as he swallowed around Methos’ cock, and with one last stroke, Methos came, hot fluid splattering his abdomen and chest.

When Methos had his breathing under control, he looked around for something to clean up the mess. He found nothing, so stood and stripped his boxers off, using them to wipe off his hand, abdomen, and chest. Tossing them on the floor, he got dressed in the camo pants, olive t-shirt, heavy socks, and black boots. He carried the boxers into the shower room and tossed them in the laundry bin, nodding hello to men he recognized from the evacuation effort, though he didn’t know their names.

He washed his hands, wet his face and hair, and then reached for a mouth refresher. Gods, he hated these things! When he was ready to face the rest of the day, he stepped back out into the hall. He checked Mac’s room and found it empty, and then headed for the stairs that led to the office.

When he finally found the office, Joe was sitting at the desk with a stack of papers at his elbow and a handheld in one hand. “Hey,” Methos greeted the other man.

“Methos!” Joe looked up from the screen he had been studying, and smiled. “How you feeling, buddy?”

“Better,” Methos nodded. “Is that coffee?” he indicated the carafe.

“Yeah! Help yourself,” Joe said, setting the handheld on the desk.

Methos poured some coffee into a clean cup and fixed it, then took a sip. “Ahh, heavenly,” he breathed.

“Have a seat,” Joe indicated the wooden chair behind the desk.

Methos sat, and looked around the room. Utilitarian, was the word that came to mind. “Think Mac could make this place look anymore grim?” Methos asked.

“Don’t start on him,” Joe warned seriously.

“What do you mean?” Methos asked innocently.

“It’s all very well and good that you’re here, Methos. He needs his life shaken up a bit. But he doesn’t need it tipped on its ass. He’s done the best he could for the last fifty years, when some days it was more than he wanted to do to get out of bed,” Joe explained.

“That doesn’t sound like the Mac I knew,” Methos argued.

“He hasn’t been the Mac you knew since you left, old man,” Joe retorted. “I’ve seen glimpses of him since he found you in Paris, but that’s all. This office, this base,” he waved his hand in the air, “it reflects his life.”

“I didn’t *do* this!” Methos spat. It was too much! He left Paris because he didn’t think Mac needed him at all; for Joe to say his absence had torn the life out of Mac was more than he could take.

“I told you before, and I wasn’t joking; you leaving damn near killed him. I want you to stay; he wants you to stay, though he may not have said so. If you’re not planning on sticking around, don’t pretend that you are, and don’t leave without a word, or the next time we find you,*I’ll* kill you myself!” Joe took a deep breath. “Christ, it was bad enough living with a brooding MacLeod. You have any idea what it’s been like living with a depressed MacLeod? Not pretty, let me tell you!” Joe tried to lighten the mood which had gotten too somber.

Methos was silent for a long while. “I had no idea,” he finally spoke. “No idea that he thought about me at all, much less enough for my leaving to hurt him that much.”

“Ha!” Joe said. “And here I thought you were ‘old and wise’.”

“Where is he?” Methos asked suddenly.

“Connor arrived... Wait, where are you going?” Joe asked.

“To see him. Besides, I’d like to meet Connor MacLeod,” Methos replied as he strode around the desk and headed for the doorway.

“Wait! Maybe we should let them have some time alone. Methos! Ben!” Joe reversed his chair away from the desk and followed the oldest Immortal. “Ben, wait!”

By the time Joe caught up with him, Methos was standing outside the building, his eyes glued on the ship unloading at the docks.

“Fuck me! Is that a tank?” Methos asked in wonder.

***

“Who’s that with Joe?” Connor asked in his gravelly voice. He and Duncan were standing on the dock, watching as the ship’s cargo was unloaded.

Duncan turned to see what Connor was looking at, and swore.

“What’s wrong?” Connor asked.

“I told Joe to keep him inside until we were done unloading,” Duncan spat.

“Why? You don’t trust him?” Connor guessed.

“No! Of course I trust him, I just... I wanted to keep him out of this part of it,” Duncan admitted with a frustrated sigh.

“Ah,” Connor nodded as if he understood. “Well, looks like that’s not going to happen; they’re heading this way,” he informed Duncan.

Duncan glanced over his shoulder at the approaching men. Damn! He hadn’t wanted Methos to know about this; his involvement might bring him to Carmine’s attention, which would only serve to put him in danger. “I should probably mention...”

“That he’s Immortal?” Connor interrupted, as he felt the tell-tale buzz.

“Yeah, he’s Immortal,” Duncan said in resignation, and then turned to watch the two men. Methos’ hands were tucked into the front pockets of his camos as he sauntered beside Joe’s chair.

“Thanks a lot, Joe!” Duncan hissed when they got close enough to hear him.

Joe shrugged. “Hey, I tried!” he held his hands up in defeat. “What was I supposed to do, knock him down with my chair and sit on him?”

“If you thought it would work!” Duncan retorted. “Or you could have shot him,” he muttered, remembering the time Methos shot him in the back in a misguided attempt to protect him. Not that *this* was misguided!

“Oh, yeah, that would have gone over well,” Joe replied. “How would I have explained having to shoot him in the first place, much less his miraculous revival?”

Methos watched the interaction between Joe and Duncan with amused interest; he was, after all, easily amused. MacLeod, Highland warrior; part boy scout, part clan chieftain. Assuming the responsibility for taking care of everyone in his clan. Methos shook his head. Since it didn’t look like Mac was going to make introductions any time soon, Methos turned to the other Immortal; Connor MacLeod.

“Dr. Benjamin Adams,” he introduced himself, and held out his hand. Connor, shoulder-length brown hair tied back in a queue, looked at Methos’ hand, then smiled and reached out to clasp it.

“Connor MacLeod,” he rasped.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Methos said. “Mac’s spoken highly of you.”

“Really? I don’t believe he’s mentioned you at all,” Connor replied, cautiously feeling the other Immortal out.

“Probably not,” Methos hooded his eyes and tried to keep his face blank, as he withdrew his hand. What a ponce he was! First he argued with Joe that he wasn’t important enough to Duncan to cause him to lose heart, and now he was upset because Duncan never mentioned him to Connor. Bloody idiot!

“Actually, Ben’s a relatively new - and old - name,” Duncan, who had heard the exchange, jumped in. “How’d you sleep?” he asked Methos, taking a step towards him and placing his hand on Methos’ arm.

Methos almost laughed at his own stupidity. Of course Duncan wouldn’t have spoken of Benjamin Adams; he’d never met the man. He grinned, once again in good humor. “Slept great,” he said, although it was the waking up part that was best.

“Good,” Duncan replied, and then just stood there staring at him, his hand still resting on Methos’ arm.

Joe cleared his throat and dragged them back to the present. Duncan dropped his hand and felt himself blushing. He felt like a lovesick fool. He had to quell this urge he had to continually touch the man; to assure himself that Methos was really there.

“So,” Methos broke the silence, and pointed towards the ship. “Tanks.”

Joe and Connor both stared at Duncan, to see how he was going to handle this. Methos looked at each of them in turn, and then ambled past them, heading towards the ship, unwilling to wait for Duncan to reach a decision.

“Me-Ben!” Duncan called after him.

“Don’t worry about me,” Methos called back. “You three just go on staring at each other; I’m gonna find me a tank to play with.”

“Jesus, he probably would!” Duncan muttered, and then yelled, “Ben!” He addressed Joe. “Why don’t you take Connor inside for some coffee, something to eat,” he suggested distractedly, his gaze never leaving Methos. “We’ll be along in a while.” Duncan jogged to catch up to Methos, and grabbed his arm.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, pulling the other man to a halt.

Methos rubbed his hands together, ignoring the restraining hand.. “Can I drive one?” he asked excitedly.

“Methos!” Duncan hissed.

Methos grew serious. “So, you’re in the arms business now?” he asked.

Duncan sighed. “Not exactly,” he replied.

“What are you doing, then? Forming your own army?” Methos laughed, and then sobered when Duncan remained silent, an embarrassed look in his face. “Oh, my gods! You are!” Methos chortled. “The French Militia? Your baby? I should have bloody known!”

“Shut up, Methos,” Duncan grumbled.

Methos laughed. “Is this why you wanted to keep me away? Because you’re moving from supplying humanitarian aid to actively fighting the war?” he asked.

“Yes,” Duncan whispered. “Now will you go away?” he asked, not sure if he could actually let him go now, no matter what Methos decided.

“Mac,” Methos smiled, and shook his head, “you’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Duncan narrowed his eyes, not sure whether that was a compliment or not.

“Oh, that was a compliment,” Methos said, as if he’d read the other man’s mind.

“Thanks, I think,” Duncan replied.

“*Now* will you show me one of the tanks?” Methos asked.

“Christ, what are you, a kid?” Duncan retorted, as he led the way to the bay where they were temporarily storing the tanks and other equipment Connor had delivered for the war effort.

Connor stood and watched Duncan’s animated conversation with ‘Ben’. He wasn’t sure what to think about this man. He remembered Duncan getting drunk on occasion, and telling him about ‘Adam Pierson’, a friend who had disappeared one day, leaving Duncan morose and hurt. On another occasion, Connor had woken Duncan from a nightmare in which he had called out for ‘Methos’. Connor had wondered about that at the time; it was commonly believed that Methos was a myth.

Now, here was ‘Benjamin Adams’, a man Duncan seemed to know well, and whom he had possibly almost called Methos. If this Immortal, Methos, Benjamin Adams, Adam Pierson, whoever he was, hurt Duncan again, he’d take his head; but if he could pull Duncan out of his malaise, he’d owe him. Since Joe seemed to know the other Immortal, he’d start with him.

“So,” Connor said, as he turned to lead the way back to the base, “that’s Methos?”

“Oh, Jesus!” Joe swore in disgust. “Is the idiot wearing a sign on his back?”

***

Duncan led Methos into the large bay that normally housed the trucks. Methos’ eyes grew wide at the sight of the tanks, jeeps, and crates nearly filling the bay. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

He strode purposefully over to one of the crates, grabbed a handy crowbar, and levered off the top. One of the Rangers tried to stop him, but Duncan waved him away. “Fuck,” he hissed, as he stared at a handheld missile launcher. He dropped the top and moved to another bunch of crates, levered the top off of one, and shook his head. Automatic weapons. Yet another bunch of crates held ammunition; and others, the larger guns that would be mounted onto the back of some of the jeeps.

Duncan watched Methos’ reaction, and wanted to cry. Methos was going to leave, he could feel it. Wait, that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? With Methos standing right there in front of him, it was hard to remember that he wanted the older Immortal away from the front line, because make no mistake, when Carmine moved past Paris, he was coming to Bordeaux.

“Methos,” Duncan whispered as he stepped up behind the other man and looked down into the last crate he had opened. “We need to talk.”

Methos turned his head and looked into Duncan’s eyes. The damned old man still looked like a little kid at Christmas! “Can I see a tank first?” he asked.

Duncan closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, Methos was still standing there, looking hopeful. ‘I love you,’ Duncan thought, and wished he could say it out loud. He blinked furiously, trying to keep his eyes from tearing.

“James,” he croaked, catching sight of the Ranger. “Could you show, uh, Ben here one of the tanks?”

“Sure!” James replied. “You want to see one too, Strider?” he asked.

“No,” Duncan shook his head, wishing they were gone already. “I’ll just wait right here.” Go, go, go, he silently prompted, feeling the urgent need to wipe his eyes and blow his nose before he made a fool out of himself.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Methos teased, squeezing Duncan’s arm reassuringly. He had literally *felt* the change that came over the other man, and wondered what exactly had brought it on. He followed James to one of the tanks, and climbed aboard. With one last look at Duncan, he lowered himself inside the tank.

Duncan watched Methos disappear into the tank and sighed in relief. He took a deep breath and tried to center himself. Christ! He hadn’t felt so off-balance since...since Paris, November, 1998. Methos threatened his equilibrium and his sanity, while making his heart glad. Why hadn’t he been able to see that before? To *say* that before? Would Methos have still left if the older Immortal knew how he felt about him?

Methos had said that he hadn’t left Paris - left Duncan - because of the danger posed by the game, the danger of constantly being called upon to save his head. If he was wrong about those reasons, could he have been wrong about the other? Had Methos never figured out how he felt about the other man? Did it even matter?

The way Methos sometimes looked at him told him that, yes, it did matter. He remembered the way Methos had unwrapped his braid and brushed his hair out, and then combed the snarls out of his wet hair and re-braided it. His touch was gentle, loving. And then Methos had brushed his fingers across his shoulder. Duncan shivered at the memory.

When he came back to the present, Methos was standing in front of him. “Time to talk?” he asked, with a slight smile. Duncan nodded, and led the way out of the bay.

***

Duncan conducted Methos to a set of stairs that led up to a guard tower. When he entered the open guard station, Duncan greeted the men and women on duty and introduced ‘Ben’.

“Heading up to the roof?” one of the men asked, used to seeing their leader climb the steps that took you to the roof.

“Yeah,” Duncan replied with a strained smile. “Thought I’d show Ben the view.”

Moments later, they were standing on the roof of the tower. Methos looked around them; the view went on for miles.

“It’s even better at night,” Duncan said. “With the stars. I’d come up here sometimes, and look for the lights of Paris, even though I knew they didn’t exist anymore. I could be alone here, and think about you.”

Duncan gazed into the distance, so he didn’t have to look at Methos. He wasn’t sure if he could say what he had to if he had to look at Methos’ reaction; especially if it wasn’t favorable. “I tried so hard not to think about you, but it only worked until I closed my eyes. I could keep myself busy during the day, but at night, the memories came rushing back. After seeing you in Paris, I thought about you all the time. Wondered what you were doing. It was as if knowing where you were made it harder to block you.” Duncan’s voice cracked and he stopped speaking.

Methos couldn’t believe that Duncan was admitting this to him. Joe had said, but he’d only partly believed, that his absence had torn Duncan’s world asunder. He didn’t know if he wanted that kind of responsibility. To be someone’s world. Who was he kidding? Duncan was his world, and it had nearly killed *him* to leave the other man, although he’d thought at the time that it was easier than staying. Now he wondered what would have happened if he had stayed. Had he wasted fifty years?

Methos stepped up behind Duncan, stopping just before their bodies brushed. He tentatively reached out a hand and lay it upon Duncan’s shoulder. The younger Immortal shuddered at his touch. “Do you still want me to leave?” he asked.

“Yes!” Duncan replied adamantly.

Methos felt gut-punched, then remembered who he was talking to; the king of brood, and guilt, and responsibility for others. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked.

“Yes,” Duncan groaned, as his head dropped. Methos smiled. He stepped forward until he was pressed against Duncan’s back, wrapped his arms around the other man, splaying his fingers against Duncan’s chest and abdomen, and rested his forehead against the nape of Duncan’s neck.

“I missed you,” Methos said. “Did you miss me?”

“Every day,” Duncan said. “Every fucking day,” he repeated, more softly. “I was broken after you left. I kept thinking you’d come back, but you never did. And things were never right again.”

“You moved on with your life, though,” Methos whispered against Duncan’s neck, and felt the other man shiver as his breath feathered across his sensitive skin.

“No, Methos. I took a page out of your book; I survived. But I didn’t live. I wasn’t...whole. The most important part of me was missing.”

“What part was that?” Methos asked hopefully.

“My heart,” Duncan responded brokenly. “My heart. You.”

“Oh, Mac,” Methos whispered. “I never would have left if I’d known. I didn’t think you needed me, and I needed you so much.” Methos gave a small, harsh laugh at the way things had worked out.

“And now?” Duncan asked.

Without speaking, Methos pressed his groin against Duncan’s ass, his erection nestling between the other man’s buttocks. He raised his head, while keeping his forehead pressed to Duncan, and placed a kiss on the back of Duncan’s neck.

“If I stay, do I have to keep sleeping in Joe’s room?” Methos whispered, as he let his hand slide down Duncan’s abdomen to brush his erection.

“Y-you can sleep wherever you want,” Duncan croaked.

“Can I sleep with you?” Methos purposely breathed across Duncan’s neck.

“Christ, Methos!” Duncan groaned, shutting his eyes and clenching his hands into fists as he moved his hips, pressing back against Methos’ erection, and then forward into his hand.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” Methos squeezed gently, and closed his teeth on Duncan’s neck.

“Yes!” Duncan cried hoarsely. “Gods, yes!”

 

 _1600 June 4, 2052  
Guard Tower  
Bordeaux, France_

* * *

  
“Can anyone see us up here?” Methos asked.

“Oh, shit, yes!” Duncan said with a nervous laugh. “The wall’s not high...”

“Then we’d better move this out of sight,” Methos bent his knees and started to lower them to the concrete floor of the roof, slipping his hand between Duncan’s legs and cupping his balls as he did so. Duncan made a garbled sound deep in his throat, and fell the rest of the way to the floor as his knees gave out at Methos’ touch.

“Methos,” he gasped.

“Yes, MacLeod?” Methos asked as he knelt behind Duncan, his own legs between Duncan’s, and pulled the other man back against him. He grabbed Duncan’s hips and rotated his own hips, pressing his erection against Duncan’s tight ass.

Duncan let his head fall back against Methos’ shoulder with an approving groan. He couldn’t believe how good it felt to have Methos pressed against his ass. They were both fully clothed, and Methos was no longer touching his cock, but he was more aroused than ever.

“Oh, God, Methos, I’m going to come!” Duncan warned, writhing against Methos behind him as he felt his balls tighten.

“Already, MacLeod?” Methos whispered huskily into Duncan’s ear, his breath tickling him, and making him shudder. “I’ve barely touched you,” he rasped, as he continued to pump his hips against the other man.

“Watching you walk across the tarmac makes me hard,” Duncan admitted breathlessly.

“Really?” Methos drawled, nipping Duncan’s neck as he unzipped the younger Immortal’s pants, reaching inside pants and boxers to wrap his fingers around the base of Duncan’s cock to keep him from coming. “Relax,” he whispered into Duncan’s ear.

“You have got to be fucking *kidding* me!” Duncan retorted in disbelief. Methos laughed.

“No, love, I’m not kidding; I don’t want you to come yet. There’s so many things I want to do with you,” Methos said, his voice low, erotic. “I want to touch you all over, your stomach,” Methos pulled Duncan’s t-shirt out of his pants and placed his hand on Duncan’s stomach, “your chest,” he slid his hand up to Duncan’s chest, “your back,” he slipped his hand around Duncan’s torso to rub his back, “your ass,” he lowered his hand to squeeze and massage Duncan’s ass through the pants, “your cock,” he moved his hand around Duncan’s hip and wrapped his fingers around the length of Duncan’s penis.

“Take your shirt off, Mac,” Methos requested, as he nuzzled Duncan’s neck. Duncan grabbed the hem and lifted the shirt over his head. He couldn’t move fast enough. The erotic picture Methos was painting, combined with his arousing touch, was driving him out of his mind. He was so hard, and needed to come so badly, yet didn’t want this to end. He’d thought about this so often, he didn’t want it to be over so soon.

“Oh, yes,” Methos moaned as Duncan tossed the t-shirt away. “I want to kiss you,” he placed a kiss on Duncan’s shoulder. “I want to lick and suck your nipples,” Methos rubbed a thumb over one of Duncan’s nipples until he felt it pebble to his touch. He took the hard nub between two fingers and rolled it, then pinched it as he licked and sucked Duncan’s neck. “I want to take you in my mouth,” he lowered his hand back to Duncan’s shaft and cupped him loosely, “go down on you, feel you thicken and pulse as you come,” Methos ran his hand up and down Duncan’s shaft.

“Methos,” Duncan groaned. He didn’t know whether he wanted Methos to stop, or never stop.

“I want to make you come with my hand; and I want to watch you touch yourself,” Methos continued to torment him with his words. “I want to bury my cock inside you, and feel you inside me. I want to unbind your hair, and wrap my naked body in it.”

Duncan could take no more. He pulled out of Methos’ arms and turned, pulling the other man against him. “You fucking tease,” Duncan hissed, just before his lips covered Methos’. Methos gripped Duncan’s shoulders for support, and parted his lips to the younger Immortal’s searching tongue. He pulled Duncan’s tongue into his mouth and sucked on it, making the other man moan.

Duncan pulled his lips away from Methos’ mouth and moved them along his jaw and down his neck, licking and nibbling, until he found the other man’s pulse point. He pulled the sensitive skin into his mouth and sucked on it. Methos tilted his head back and arched his neck, to give Duncan better access. Duncan tugged on Methos’ t-shirt, pulling it out of his pants, and then slipped his hands beneath it.

“Mmm, Mac,” Methos moaned, his hands roving over Duncan’s back and arms. He’d dreamt about Duncan touching him like this, but had never expected to experience it.

Duncan explored Methos’ abdomen and back as he sucked on Methos’ neck, not stopping until he left a mark. He moved to the other side of Methos’ neck, determined to leave a twin mark. His hands moved up to Methos’ chest, his fingers lightly playing with the other man’s nipples; rubbing and pulling at them until they hardened. A wordless moan issued from Methos’ throat as he dug his fingers into Duncan’s back.

Duncan lifted his head and surveyed his handiwork, and then raised Methos’ t-shirt, pushing it over his head. He pulled Methos back against him, letting his hands roam over the other man’s back as he kissed him again. Soft nibbles on his lips, and then a soothing lick.

“MacLeod,” Methos groaned, his hands moving up and down Duncan’s back.

“Yes, Methos,” Duncan responded, as he continued to tease the other man with his lips. He moved his hands to Methos’ belt, unbuckled it, and then unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. Suddenly, he slipped his hands beneath the waistband of Methos’ pants and cupped his bare ass.

“Christ, Mac!” Methos panted, grinding his pelvis against Duncan’s.

“No boxers, Methos?” Duncan asked teasingly, squeezing and kneading the other man’s buttocks.

“No, had to use them to clean up after my fantasy of you this morning,” Methos admitted breathlessly. With a twitch of his hips, their erections came together, and both men gasped at the contact.

“Really?” Duncan groaned.

“Yes,” Methos replied. “Oh, yes. It’s the hair. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I saw your braid. I’ve wanted to touch it, to see what you looked like naked, with your hair spread out around you, to feel it wrapped around me.”

“You’ve got a hair fetish?” Duncan asked in surprise, as he reached between them and grasped both of their cocks in his hand, and began to pump.

“For you. Only for you,” Methos groaned, pushing his hips forward and into Duncan’s hand. “Gods that feels good!” he cried. “Stop!”

“Why?” Duncan asked, not stopping.

“Because we don’t have anything to clean up with, unless you want to use your boxers,” Methos replied.

“You’re worried about cleaning up? Now?” Duncan asked, disbelieving.

“Just...oh gods...thinking about you!” Methos insisted. “You want to walk past your men with semen drying on your hand and stomach?”

“Shit! I hate you!” Duncan responded in frustration, letting go of their erections.

“Don’t worry, Highlander,” Methos’ voice dropped an octave. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Really?” Duncan asked desperately. “What?”

“Lay down,” Methos urged.

“What?” Duncan asked.

“Lay down. On your side. Here, put your shirt under you,” Methos handed Duncan the t-shirt so he didn’t have to lay his bare flesh on the concrete floor. Duncan put the shirt down, and laid on it.

Methos put his own t-shirt down on the floor and stretched out so that his cock jutted near Duncan’s face. He reached out and unbuckled Duncan’s belt and unbuttoned his pants, then pushed them apart. He slipped his hands inside Duncan’s pants and eased his cock and balls out. With his hands cupping Duncan’s balls, he leaned forward and licked the tip of Duncan’s penis. Duncan groaned and tilted his pelvis forward.

“Reciprocate, Highlander,” Methos commanded.

“Oh yes!” Duncan agreed. He darted forward and enveloped the head of Methos’ penis in his mouth, poking the tip of his tongue into the slit, tasting the bitter-salty fluid pooling there. He sucked as he swirled his tongue around the ridge, then pressed it against the nerves bundled below the ridge. Not satisfied, he widened his mouth and slid his lips down Methos’ shaft, until his nose was buried in the wiry curls at the base.

Methos found himself unable to think as Duncan sucked him off. He buried his face in Duncan’s groin, and took one of his balls into his mouth, sucking gently. Duncan moved his mouth up and down Methos’ length, pressing his tongue against him as he sucked. Then he took him in all the way, and groaned as Methos sucked on his balls.

Methos threw his head back and cried out as the vibration in Duncan’s throat reverberated along his cock. So Duncan did it again. “Mac, Mac,” Methos chanted, pumping his hips into Duncan’s mouth. “Please, god, Mac, please...”

Duncan swallowed around Methos’ hard flesh, and felt it swell, and then pulse as it exploded, shooting hot fluid into his mouth. Duncan sucked Methos until he was spent, then cleaned him off and let his softened penis fall from his mouth.

“Methos?” Duncan called his name softly.

“Yeah?” Methos responded, his voice faint, his face still buried in Duncan’s groin.

“You alright?” Duncan asked worriedly.

Methos gave a little laugh. “I am so much better than alright it isn’t funny,” he said. “I think I’m floating. Am I floating?”

Duncan looked around them. “Uh, nope. Still laying on the hard concrete floor. And that’s not the only thing that’s still hard,” he added, with a pointed wiggle of his hips.

Methos laughed breathlessly again. “I’ll take care of you in just a minute. That was...that was a religious experience, Mac. I’m going to worship at the altar of MacLeod from now on. And speaking of worshiping...” He licked a path down Duncan’s penis.

“Oh, yes,” Duncan agreed. “Worshiping is good. Very good,” he groaned as Methos pulled his penis away from his body, and held it as he whirled his tongue around the head.

Methos licked the flat of his tongue over the tip of Duncan’s cock, then fluttered the tip of his tongue over and into the sensitive slit, tasting Duncan’s essence. He sucked on the very tip, then lowered his head until his lips moved down over the ridge. Methos raised and lowered his head, running his lips over the ridge as his tongue continued to lap at the tip.

Duncan cried out and reached for Methos’ head as Methos held the head of Duncan’s penis in his mouth and sucked, his tongue pressing against the sensitive nerve below the ridge and his hand slowly pumping Duncan’s shaft.

“Methos,” Duncan groaned, his fingers moving convulsively over Methos’ spiky locks. “Methos, please.”

Methos took Duncan deeper, filling his mouth with him until the head of Duncan’s cock touched the back of his throat. He cupped Duncan’s balls, squeezing and kneading them as he lifted his head until just the tip of Duncan’s penis was held gently between his teeth, and then lowered it, letting his teeth lightly graze Duncan’s shaft, until all of Duncan was again sheathed in his mouth.

“Didn’t we have a discussion about teasing earlier?” Duncan asked breathlessly, as he moved his hips.

“Aayee,” Methos replied, smiling around Duncan’s hard flesh.

“Methos,” Duncan said pleadingly.

“Mmm?” Methos questioned.

“Please, Methos,” Duncan begged. “Please.”

Methos gripped Duncan’s hip with one hand to keep the other man from fucking his mouth, as he continued to slowly move his mouth up and down Duncan’s penis, sucking and licking the length that slid between his lips. Methos pressed his fingers against the sensitive flesh behind Duncan’s balls, massaging it, and then ran a teasing finger around the opening to Duncan’s body.

“Fuck!” Duncan cried out. “Yes, Methos, god, yes!” He arched his back as he felt his balls tighten, and then his cock filled and spasmed as he came, erupting savagely into Methos’ mouth. He barely felt Methos’ continuing suction as bright lights went off behind his eyes.

When Duncan came back to himself, Methos was lying beside him, cradling him in his arms. “Methos,” Duncan croaked.

“Christ, MacLeod,” Methos growled softly, “you scared me.”

“I was *definitely* floating,” Duncan gave Methos a lopsided smile.

“You sound drunk,” Methos shook his head.

“High. On love,” Duncan corrected. “You smell good,” he nuzzled Methos’ neck, and the older Immortal laughed and rolled away as Duncan tickled him. Duncan pulled him back and kissed him. “Thank you, Methos.”

“For what, Mac?” Methos asked against Duncan’s lips.

“For being here,” Duncan said, blinking back tears.

“Duncan...”

“No, Methos, don’t... Just be here,” Duncan said, burying his face in Methos’ neck and holding him close.

“I am,” Methos said fiercely. “I am.”

The two men lay holding each other in silence. Duncan ran his hands over Methos’ back, while Methos ran Duncan’s braid through his fingers. “Will you brush my hair again?” Duncan asked.

“Mmm, oh yes,” Methos whispered. He pulled back slightly and used Duncan’s braid to pull the other man’s head back. Methos studied Duncan’s face. He’d never seen anything more beautiful than the still-dazed look in Duncan’s eyes. An intense desire to possess the other man overtook him.

Methos claimed Duncan’s lips with a desperate need. Duncan groaned as he yielded to Methos, his hands gripping the older Immortal’s shoulder, digging into his back. Soon, he was aroused, and kissing Methos back as desperately as Methos was kissing him. After fifty years apart, they were both filled with the need to claim, and be claimed. They separated long enough to suck in a gasping breath, and then met again in a ferocious clash of lips, and tongues, and teeth.

***

They were brought up short when Duncan’s radio squawked. They parted, panting heavily, trying to catch their breaths. Methos looked down at Duncan with a grin.

“What?” Duncan asked, as he patted his body down looking for his comm unit.

“Nothing. I just like looking at you,” Methos told him.

“Yeah?” Duncan stopped searching for the radio. “I like looking at you, too.”

The comm squawked again, this time accompanied by Joe’s voice, “Mac?”

“Where is that damned comm unit?” Duncan asked.

Methos, whose hands had been roving over Duncan’s naked back and ass, found the radio and pressed the button. “Yeah?” he asked brusquely, annoyed at being interrupted.

“Methos?” Joe sounded surprised.

“Yes, Joe, it is I,” Methos said, his eyes still locked on Duncan’s face. “What do you need?”

“Is Mac there?” Joe asked.

“Yep,” Methos said.

“Everything alright?” Joe asked cautiously.

“Yeah, why?” Methos asked, lowering his head to lick one of Duncan’s nipples.

“Well, because you’re answering Mac’s comm. Where are you?” Joe demanded.

“Roof of one of the guard towers,” Methos lifted his head long enough to reply.

“Should have known.” Methos could hear the laughter in Joe’s voice. “What are you guys doing up there?”

Methos looked at Duncan lying on the roof, his eyes glazed, his breathing uneven. “Talking,” Methos said, and Duncan laughed.

“Any injuries I should know about?” Joe asked.

Methos gave Duncan the once-over. “Nothing we won’t recover from,” he replied with a grin and a raised eyebrow, and Duncan groaned.

“Do you suppose you could get down here? The trucks have reached Toulouse.”

“We’ll be right there, Joe,” Methos said, and then thumbed the unit off. He set the comm down beside Duncan and then laid back down on his chest. “You need to get back to work,” he said, nibbling on Duncan’s lips.

“I’m not sure if I can make it down the stairs,” Duncan sounded almost petulant. Methos laughed as he pictured Duncan staggering down the stairs. “It’s not funny!” Duncan pouted.

“You’re right, of course,” Methos agreed, lips twitching. “You can lean on me.”

Duncan turned serious. “Can I?” he asked.

Methos just stared at him. He’d left this man because he didn’t think Duncan needed him. How to prove that he wanted nothing more than to remain by his side? He hadn’t told Duncan that leaving the younger Immortal had nearly killed *him* too, that it had been a struggle to get through each day without thoughts of the other man filling his head.

“I mean, I don’t want this - us - to be a burden...”

“Stop,” Methos pressed his lips to Duncan’s to silence him. “You could never be a burden to me. *This* could never be a burden to me. I meant it when I said I missed you, when I said I never would have left if I’d had any idea that you needed me. You can lean on me. Always,” Methos assured him with a gentle kiss.

“And you, Methos,” Duncan rubbed his hand over the back of Methos’ head, loving the feel of his short, silky spikes against his palm. “You can lean on me. This isn’t one-sided. You know,” he gave an embarrassed smile, “how they say the earth moved? Well, it did. My world just settled back into place. I feel whole again. Right.”

“You give me an awful lot of credit, MacLeod,” Methos said self-deprecatingly, as he ran his fingers over Duncan’s face.

“You mean an awful lot to me, Methos,” Duncan corrected him. “I love you,” he whispered, and then kissed Methos. The gentle press of lips turned desperate and needy, as if they could fit fifty years of longing into one kiss.

They separated, and Methos pulled Duncan to him, pressing the side of his face against Duncan’s. “I love you too, Mac,” he said, his voice fierce.

“Do I need to come up there and get you two?” Joe’s irate voice came over the comm unit. Methos laughed as he scrabbled for it.

“Sorry, Joe,” he said. “Just enjoying the view up here.” Duncan blushed.

***

Methos rolled to his knees and picked up his t-shirt. He shook it out, and then pulled it on over his head.

“We still need to talk,” Duncan said softly.

“About this?” Methos asked, as he tucked his t-shirt into his pants.

“No, about...*this*,” Duncan waved his hand to encompass the entire base, “and how much you want to be involved with...everything.”

“Will you teach me how to fly your chopper?” Methos asked with a grin.

“Christ, you really *are* a kid!” Duncan said, shaking his head as he sat up and reached for his own t-shirt.

“Your point?” Methos asked unrepentantly. “That’s always been one of the things I liked about you, MacLeod. You have fun toys.”

“You’ll need weapons training,” Duncan’s voice was muffled as he pulled the t-shirt on over his head. He stared at the floor nervously as he tucked his t-shirt in and zipped up his pants. He tightened the belt and tried for casual, as he asked, “Would you be my second?”

“Your second?” Methos asked, with a confused cock of his head. “Are we dueling?”

“Second in command,” Duncan rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Idiot.”

“Second in command,” Methos breathed. “Who’s your second in command now?” he asked. Duncan mumbled something under his breath. “What was that?”

“I said, I don’t have one!” Duncan replied, exasperated and embarrassed.

“You don’t... Who makes decisions now, if you’re not available?” Methos asked in surprise.

“Joe would handle the distribution side of things, but he couldn’t lead the men if...” Duncan shrugged. “There’s a hierarchy among the Rangers. On this base, Paul Todd is designated Ranger Three. He’s next in the chain of command. Currently.”

“Let me get this straight,” Methos said, leaning back to sit on his heels and crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re Ranger One.” Duncan nodded. “Paul Todd is Ranger Three.” Duncan nodded again. “There is currently no Ranger Two.”

“Correct,” Duncan said.

“Why didn’t you just designate Paul Todd Ranger Two?” Methos asked.

Duncan played with the seam of his pants. “There’s never been a Ranger Two,” he said, his voice so low Methos had to strain to hear it. “There’s only one person I’d trust to watch my back,” he glanced up at Methos and then back down at his fingers as they worked a loose thread he’d found.

“Who?” Methos asked.

Duncan rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. This was such a ...a moving moment for him and Methos was... “You’re such a pain in the ass,” Duncan shook his head. “And just so you know,” he stood up and straightened his shoulders, “watching my back does *not* mean shooting me in the back. Just so we’re clear.” He ran his hands over his braid, and then started for the stairs. “Coming?” he shot back over his shoulder.

“Nearly,” Methos groaned. A back-in-command Duncan made him hot. Naked-and-groaning Duncan had made him hot, too. Methos tilted his head in thought. Shy-and-blushing Duncan was pretty hot...

“Methos!” Duncan’s voice echoed in the stairwell.

“Coming!” Methos jumped to his feet and followed the younger Immortal.

When they finally reached the office, Joe was pacing his chair around the room and Connor was sleeping in the uncomfortable wooden chair, his feet up on the desk. “It’s about time you got here!” Joe yelled in exasperation. Connor opened one eye, and then closed it again when he saw who it was.

“Sorry, Joe,” Duncan said, as he sat on the corner of his desk. Methos leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Me-, er, Ben and I...”

“He knows,” Joe sighed.

“What?” Duncan asked.

“Connor knows that Ben is Methos,” Joe spelled it out.

“Geez, Joe. I’m back for one day and already you’re handing out fliers?” Methos groused.

“I didn’t tell him, wise ass,” Joe said. “He guessed.”

“Good guess,” Duncan said. Methos frowned at him. “What? Just saying. Anyway,” he turned back to Joe, “Methos and I needed to talk.”

“Talk,” Joe repeated.

“Yes, talk,” Duncan said defensively.

“Is that a hickey?” Joe paused his chair beside Methos and poked at a fading red mark on the side of his neck. Methos blushed. Duncan grinned.

“What are you talking about?” Methos reached up to cover the mark. “Of course not!” He turned to Duncan and mouthed, ‘You gave me a hickey?’ Duncan shrugged, still grinning.

“Two?” Joe poked at the mark on the other side of Methos’ neck. “Jesus, I thought you two were talking!”

‘Two?’ Methos growled silently, slapping a hand to the other side of his neck.

“We were!” Duncan defended themselves. “A little,” he amended at Joe’s look. “About those trucks?”

~and that’s all she wrote, folks~

**Author's Note:**

> I found this incomplete fic on my hard drive while making sure I'd uploaded all of my Highlander fic to this archive, and rather than have over 25,000 words of fic just disappear, I decided to post it here in it's incomplete state. I hope that anyone who reads this fic enjoys it, despite the fact that it will never be finished.


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